response 8 of 207:

Oct 4 07:59 UTC 1998

  Mark Twain?

response 10 of 207:

Oct 4 15:04 UTC 1998

kipling?

response 12 of 207:

Oct 4 23:06 UTC 1998

Kipling's not a bad guess, but it ain't Kipling.

response 14 of 207:

Oct 5 11:41 UTC 1998

Not Kahlil Gibran.

Here's another quote by this author:

        We halted at the bridge spanning the mountain torrent;
        those who had run further doubled back. The water below
        smashed against rocks and roots as if it were not
        already late in the evening. There was no reason why no
        one jumped up to the balustrade of the bridge.

        In the distance, a railroad train emerged from behind
        some shrubbery, all the compartments were lit, the
        glass windows were probably down. One of us began
        singing a popular hit, but we all wanted to sing. We
        sang much faster than the train moved, we swung our
        arms because our voices weren't strong enough, our
        voices formed a scrimmage in which we felt cozy. If
        you blend your voice with other voices, you are
        virtually caught on a fishhook.

        And so, with our backs to the forest, we sang for the
        ears of distant travelers. The adults were still awake
        in the village, the mothers were making up the beds
        for the night.

        It was already time. I kissed the one standing next
        to me, casually shook hands with the three nearest
        ones, and began to run back; no one called out to me.
        At the first crossroads, where they could no longer
        see me, I turned off and ran back into the forest
        along dirt roads. I was heading toward the southern
        city which our villagers talk about:

        "There are people there! Just imagine, they don't
        sleep!"

        "And why not?"

        "Because they don't get sleepy."

        "And why not?"

        "Because they're fools."

        "Don't fools get sleepy?"

        "How could fools get sleepy?"

response 16 of 207:

Oct 5 13:38 UTC 1998

The author lived around the same time as Kipling but was considerably
younger. His life overlapped significantly with Twain's as well. He
was definitely earlier than Thurber.

response 18 of 207:

Oct 5 22:42 UTC 1998

Not G.K. Chesterton.

response 20 of 207:

Oct 6 17:26 UTC 1998

 Wodehouse?

response 22 of 207:

Oct 6 19:04 UTC 1998

re #19: aha!  I conclude that remmers is pulling everyone's leg, and all 
the hints are lies; that the author doesn't meet any of the stated 
criteria, and didn't write the quotes.

Arthur C. Clarke

(I so rarely get to make a guess in these items that I just couldn't 
resist, though clearly I should have.)

response 24 of 207:

Oct 6 20:20 UTC 1998

though i have no idea about the author, a common assumption about all the the 
authors givin is that they were/are  not natives of the settings described
in the selections. 
I don't think that makes as much sense as it should. anyway, bait us some more.

response 26 of 207:

Oct 6 23:37 UTC 1998

C. S. Lewis?

response 28 of 207:

Oct 7 11:50 UTC 1998

Arthur Conan Doyle?

response 30 of 207:

Oct 7 13:19 UTC 1998

Not C.S. Lewis, not Arthur Conan Doyle.

All the guesses so far have been male authors, but that's not the
incorrect assumption I had in mind either. (Note that I'm not saying
whether the assumption that the author is male is correct or not.)

I looked through my copy of one of the author's best-known works but
couldn't find anything that wouldn't be a dead giveaway. So I'll quote
again from something less well-known. It's a little more characteristic
of the themes and style associated with this author than my previous
quotes, however:

        Schmar, the murderer, stationed himself toward nine P.M.,
        in the moonlit night, at the corner where Wese, the victim,
        had to turn from the street where his office was into the
        street he lived on.

        Cold night air sending shudders through everyone. But Schmar
        was wearing only a blue suit; furthermore, his jacket was
        unbuttoned. He felt no cold; besides, he was constantly
        moving. He kept a tight grip on his murder weapon, half
        bayonet, half kitchen knife, fully exposed. He peered at the
        knife against the moonlight; the blade flashed; not enough
        for Schmar; he banged it against the pavement bricks, 
        striking sparks; regretted it perhaps; and to fix the damage,
        he drew the blade over the soles of his boots like a violin
        bow while, standing on one leg and leaning over, he drew the
        blade over the soles of his boots like a violin bow while,
        standing on one leg and leaning over, he also listened to
        the grinding of the knife on his boots, though alert to
        any sound from the fateful side street.

        Why was all this tolerated by Pallas, a private citizen,
        who was nearby, watching everything from his window on the
        second landing? Try and fathom human nature! With his collar
        turned up, his dressing gown belted around his wide waist,
        he peered down, shaking his head.