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My whole life is messed up with people falling in love with me.
Once said Edna St. Vincent Millay.
Even more incomprehensible than the two-century neglect of a painter like Vermeer — the three centuries in which the music of Monteverdi was all but forgotten.
January 10, 1957, Gabriela Mistral died on.
Tolstoy’s ruined teeth.
Gogol’s.
Admire a small ship, but put your cargo in a large one.
Hesiod said.
Savonarola, in one of his inflammatory sermons, directs his words at contemporary artists:
I tell you, the Virgin dressed herself as a poor woman. And you represent her as a whore.
This approximately one hundred years before he might have been able to view Caravaggio’s version of her death — effected with such prototypal naturalism that her feet are not clean.
A critic. Someone who meddles with something that is none of his business.
Gauguin says Mallarmé said.
In flight from the Gestapo while a member of the French Resistance, Paul Eluard at one point hid for two months in an insane asylum.
Sartre’s The Respectful Prostitute was first produced in Paris precisely in the middle of a campaign against immorality.
And had to be advertised with the word Putain blacked out.
Homer. Euripides. Ovid’s Metamorphoses.
Being the works that Milton, blind, most frequently asked to have read to him.
Novalis’s Heinrich von Ofterdingen.
The last one that Borges asked to hear before his death.
October 17, 1973, Ingeborg Bachma
Sit in thy cell — and thy cell shall teach thee all things.
Said Saint Anthony.
Who evidently sat in his own for as long as twenty years without once taking any sort of bath — or even washing his face.
Lauritz Melchior and Helen Traubel, for years two of the Metropolitan’s central Wagnerians — who expended endless ingenuity in forever attempting to make each other break up into onstage laughter.
Trying to think of a single book by a significant writer as transparently spurious throughout as A Moveable Feast.
Wine, the title of John Gay’s first published poem was.
In which he insisted that no one who drank only water could ever become an author.
One’s first glass of the day is a great event.
Acknowledged Thackeray.
Not drunk is he who from the floor
Can rise alone and still drink more.
Contributed Thomas Love Peacock.
Bo-ray pri ha-gofen.
A manual-winding pocket watch, Einstein carried.
Snivel in a wet hanky, D. H. Lawrence called Lord Jim.
At fifty-eight, two years before his death, Chaucer was sued over a debt of fourteen pounds.
And did not have the money.
Gide-ists. Rilke-ists. Fraudulent existential witch doctors. Pallid worms in the cheese of capitalism. Intellectuals.
Being among Pablo Neruda’s more kindly appellations for authors not concerned with politics.
Little more than a device for getting revenge upon those who are having a better time on earth.
Mencken called the Christian concept of immortality.
Was it Eliot’s toilet I saw?
Inquired someone’s palindrome — after use of a bathroom at Faber and Faber.
Well over a century after Dostoievsky’s death in St. Petersburg, a great-grandson named Dmitri Dostoievsky still lived there — working as a tram driver.
Twenty-some years after Missolonghi, Teresa Guiccioli married a Parisian marquis — who was known to habitually introduce her as Ma femme, ancie
August Comte married a prostitute.
Ibsen’s terror of even the smallest dog.
The morning’s recollection of the emptiness of the day before.
Its anticipation of the emptiness of the day to come.
Zurbarán died pe
The final entry re Frans Hals, dated September 1, 1666, in the records of the Haarlem Paupers’ Fund — listing four florins for a gravedigger.
An immense nausea of billboards, Baudelaire spoke of.
A century and a half ago.
Closing time in the gardens of the West, Cyril Co
A century after that.
What can be the sufficient reason for this phenomenon? said Pangloss.
It is the Last Day! cried Candide.
A man may know that he is going to die, but he can never know that he is dead.
Said Samuel Butler.
Death is not an event in life; we do not live to experience death.
Said Wittgenstein.
Versailles, Edith Wharton was buried in.
January 8, 1713, Arcangelo Corelli died on.
Blake’s bust in Westminster Abbey.
By Jacob Epstein.
Epstein is a great sculptor. I wish he would wash.
Said Pound.
The limpest of handshakes, Robert Graves said Pound had.
The mirror will not be looked into until you have returned.
Says a letter from the wife of an ancient Chinese poet.
Incapacitated by Alzheimer’s disease, de Kooning was once discovered about to spike his coffee with weed killer — presumably thinking it whiskey.
Burton’s Anatomy of Melancholy.
The only book that ever took him out of bed two hours sooner than he wished to be, Johnson said.
Chloroform in print.
Mark Twain called the Book of Mormon.
Think of the Bible and Homer, think of Shakespeare and think of me.
Unquote, Gertrude Stein.
Oh, dear —
Reportedly having been David Garrick’s dying words.
Eddie Grant, the pre — World War I third baseman, who graduated from Harvard — and who insisted on shouting I have it instead of I got it when chasing a fly ball.
And who as an infantry captain would be killed by machine gun fire in the Argo
Baseball is what we were, football is what we have become.
Said Mary McGrory.
Far too much music finishes far too long after the end.
Judged Stravinsky.
Still to be read in the blank spaces on some of Raphael’s preliminary sketches for his Vatican stanze frescoes — drafts of love poems to his latest mistress.
Will Durant’s amusingly unworldly conclusion that the Sappho in Raphael’s Parnassus is — quote — too beautiful to be a lesbian.
Hark, Hark, the Lark! and Who Is Sylvia?
Which Schubert set on the same single afternoon.
The word plagiarism — from the Latin for kidnapping.
To kidnap another writer’s brains, Martial had it.
Old Hoss. Old Pete. Old Reliable. Old Folks. Old Aches and Pains.
Novelist’s personal genre. In which part of the experiment is to continue keeping him offstage to the greatest extent possible — while compelling the attentive reader to perhaps catch his breath when things achieve an ending nonetheless.
Conclusions are the weak point of most authors.
George Eliot said.
If you know what you’re doing, you don’t get intercepted.
Said Joh
Eugene Sue, most of whose widely read novels dealt with the poor and downtrodden.
And thereby made him a millionaire, Kierkegaard noted.
Picasso, in Paris during the Nazi occupation and learning that someone had accused him of having Jewish blood:
I wish I had.
Drawing, for an artist:
A way of thinking, Valéry termed it.
February 23, 1931, Nellie Melba died on.
Let me alone. Good day.
Said Tom Paine — to the two clergymen who had contrived to make their way to his bedside when he lay dying.
How long the days for the wretched, how swift for the favored.
Said Publilius Syrus.
’Tis their will — that thy son from this crested wall of Troy be dashed to death.
The most tragic of the poets.
Aristotle called Euripides.
Proust’s excessively lavish over-tipping.
Gide’s reputation as a cheapskate.
Coryate, the English traveler, in Venice in 1611:
When I went to the theatre, I observed certain things I never saw before; for I saw women acte.