response 135 of 195:

Feb 26 06:54 UTC 1999

I'll guess Brutkowski, then, in which case the movie is "Barfly".

response 137 of 195:

Feb 26 14:39 UTC 1999

As one get older, one's concept of "a few years" tends to lengthen. I 
still think of the 1970's as fairly recent.

Yes, it's Charles Bukowski and the movie was "Barfly", with Mickey 
Rourke and Faye Dunaway (and Bukowski himself in a cameo). It was 
released in 1987. Good movie.

Despite Mark's misspelling of the author's name, I think we should 
consider that he got it.

response 139 of 195:

Feb 26 23:27 UTC 1999

Re #137, the phenomenon you describe never ceases to amaze me.
I have 30-year-old books I still think of as "the new book."

response 141 of 195:

Feb 27 10:25 UTC 1999

you can have it mark. Which collection were those poems from? I used to read a
lot of bukowski, I didn't recognise those at all though. You'd think the style
would give it away.  hmm. 

response 143 of 195:

Mar 1 16:25 UTC 1999

OK, here's my quote.  All spelling is as in the original.

"My beloved Laura (said she to me a few Hours before she died) take
warning from my unhappy End & avoid the imprudent conduct which has
occasioned it . . beware of fainting fits . . Though at the the time they
may be refreshing & Agreable yet beleive me they will in the end, if too
often repeated & at improper seasons, prove destructive to your
Constitution . . . . . My fate will teach you this . . I die a Martyr to
my greif for the loss of Augustus . . . . One fatal swoon has cost me my
Life . . . . Beware of swoons Dear Laura . . . A frenzy fit is not one
quarter so pernicious; it is an exercise to the Body & if not too violent,
is I dare say conducive to Health in its consequences -- Run mad as often
as you chuse, but do not faint--".
        these were the last words she ever adressed to me . . . It was her
dieing Advice to her afflicted Laura, who has ever most faithfully adhered
to it.

response 145 of 195:

Mar 3 22:01 UTC 1999

(Re resp:141 - The quotes were taken from Bukowski's _Septuagenarian
Stew_, published in 1990, when he was 70 years old.)

response 147 of 195:

Mar 4 11:41 UTC 1999

(Re the last time *I* gave a quote, quite a while back now: I heard on All
Things Considered that Willard Espy died last week.)

response 149 of 195:

Mar 8 20:38 UTC 1999

OK, here's another quote:

Who can be in doubt of what followed? -- When any two Young People take it 
into their heads to marry, they are pretty sure by perseverance to carry their
point -- be they ever so poor, or ever so imprudent, or ever so little likely
to be necessary to each other's ultimate comfort.  This may be bad Morality
to conclude with, but I believe it to be Truth -- and if such parties succeed,
how should a Capt. W -- & an Anne E -- with the advantage of maturity of Mind,
consciousness of Right, & one Independent Fortune between them, fail of
bearing down every opposition?  They might in fact, have born down a great
deal more than they met with, for there was little to distress them beyond
the want of Graciousness and Warmth.  Sir W. made no objection, & Elizth did
nothing worse than look cold & unconcerned.

response 151 of 195:

Mar 8 21:58 UTC 1999

Jane Austen? (I'm thinking... Persuasion...)

response 153 of 195:

Mar 9 01:08 UTC 1999

I think I already guessed jane austin, (with persuasion in mind) or was that 
another guess?

response 155 of 195:

Mar 9 04:47 UTC 1999

Indeed, it is Jane Austen, from the original ending to Persuasion.  (I gather
it was published after she died, from her notes, which explains why it
contains abbreviations and odd capitalization.)  The first quote was from
"Love and Freindship" [sic], part of the "Juvenalia".  Anne's up!

response 157 of 195:

Mar 10 01:20 UTC 1999

Okay here we go... It's fairly long, and if there are spelling
mistakes assume they are mine... and forgive the temporarily-one-
handed-typist....

        "Cats.  It sounded quite alluring to V., in the plural.  She
pictured an island in Muskoka haunted by pussies.
        "That alone shoes there is something wrong with him," decreed
Aunt Isabel.
        "People who don't like cats," said V., attacking her dessert
with a relish, "always seem to think that there is some peculiar
virtue in not liking them."
        "The man hasn't a friend except Roaring Abel," said Uncle
Wellington, "And if Roaring Abel had kept away from him, as everybody
else did, it would have been better for - for some members of his family."
        Uncle Wellington's rather lame conclusion was due to a marital
glance from Aunt Wellington reminding him of what he had almost forgotten-
that there were girls at the table.
        "If you mean," said V. passionately, "that Barney S. is the father
of Cecily Gay's child, he isn't.  It's a wicked lie."
        In spite of her indignation V. was hugely amused at the expression
of the faces around that festal table.  She had not seen anything like
it since the day, seventeen years ago, when at Cousin Gladys's thimble
party, they discoveredOP that she had got - SOMETHING - in her head at
school.  Lice in her head!  V. was done with euphemisms.
        Poor Mrs. F. was almost in a state of collapse.  She had believed-
or pretended to believe- that V. still supposed that children were
found in parsley beds.
        "Hush- hush!" implored Cousin Stickles.
        "I don't mean to hush," said V. perversely, "I've hush-hushed
all my life.  I'll scream if I want to.  Don't make me want to.  And
stop talking about Barney S."
        V. didn'tr exactly understand her own indignation.  What did
BArney S.'s imputed crimes and misdemeanours matter to her?  And why,
out of them all, did it seem most intolerable that he should have been 
poor, pitiful little Cecily Gay's false lover?  For it did seem intolerable
to her.  She did not mind when they called him a theif and a counterfeiter
and a jail-bird; but she could not endure to think that he had loved and
ruined Cecily Gay.  She recalled his face on the two occasions of their chance
meetings-his twisted, enigmatic, engaging smile, his twinkle, his thin
sensitive, almost ascetic lips, his general air of frank daredeviltry.
A man wish such a smile and lips might have murdered or stolen but he
could not have betrayed.  She suddenly hated every one who said it or
believed it of him.
        "When I was a young girl I never thought or spoke about such
matters, Doss," said Aunt Wellington, crushingly.
        "But I'm not a young girl," retorted V., uncrushed. "Aren't
you always rubbing that into me? And you are all evil-minded, senseless
gossips.  Can't you leave poor Cissy Gay alone?  She's dying.  Whatever
she did, God or the Devil has punished her enough for it.  You needn't
take a hand, too.  As for Barney S., the only crime he has been guilty
of is living to himself and minding his own business.  He can, it seems,
get along without you.  Which is an unpardonable sin, of course, in your
little snobocracy." V. coined that concluding word suddenly and felt that
it was an inspiration.  That was exactly what they were and not one of
them was fit to mend another.
        "V., your poor father would turn over in his grave if he could 
hear you," said Mrs. F.
        "I dare say he would enjoy that for a change," said V. brazenly."

There you go, have at it.