February 04, 2010
While George Bernard Shaw’s marriage was never consummated, that didn’t mean the Irish playwright was a virgin. In 1885, when he was a poor 28-year-old unsuccessful novelist with an interest in music and socialism, he entered into a passionate affair. met Mrs. Jenny Patterson. The 44-year-old widow was quickly drawn to the tall, red-bearded Irishman with his fascinating conversation.
For months, they would spend many evenings together. When he bought a packet of rubbers, he examined them and recorded in his diary that they “extraordinarily revolted me.” Nevertheless, a week later, he marked his 29th birthday with “a new experience” and took Jenny to bed.
But it was not a happy relationship. The sex seemed to intrigue and revolt Shaw. He tried to break it off, but the possessive Jenny would refuse to let him go. The result were long nights of talk that sometimes led to a reconciliation in bed.
But Jenny went ballistic when Shaw became close to an actress, Florence Farr. The jealous Jenny broke into Shaw’s rooms and steal copies of his letters, and he had to chase her down and get them back.
Events came to a head on this day when, while Shaw was visiting Florence, Jenny burst in. A violent argument followed, and Shaw had to send Florence away to keep from being attacked. It took several hours of talking to get Jenny home, and several hours more before he could leave her. He finally got home about 4 a.m., and fell exhausted into bed.
Shaw made sure that was the last time they met. But the experience wasn’t wasted. He used Jenny as a model for Blanche Sartorius in his first play, “Widower’s Houses,” and for Julia Craven in “The Philanderer.”
Born: John Bachman, naturalist, minister, Rhinebeck, N.Y., 1790;
William Ainsworth, historical novelist, Manchester, England, 1805; Jacques Prévert, poet, screenwriter, Neuilly-sur-Seine, France, 1900;
Charles Lindbergh, aviator, memoirist, Detroit, Mich., 1902;
McKinlay Kantor, historical novelist, journalist, Webster City, Iowa, 1904;
Dietrich Bonhoeffer, theologian, Breslau, Prussia, 1906;
Gavin Ewart, poet, London, 1916;
Betty Friedan, author, feminist leader, Peoria, Ill., 1921;
Russell Hoban, novelist, children's author, Lansdale, Penn., 1925;
Robert Coover, novelist, Charles City, Iowa, 1932;
Stewart ONan, novelist, short-story writer, Pittsburgh, Penn., 1961.
Died: Edward Sapir, linguist, anthropologist, New Haven, Conn., 1939;
Gilbert H. Grosvenor, National Geographic editor, Cape Breton Island, Nova Scotia, Canada, 1966;
Neal Cassady, Beat inspiration, memoirist, San Miguelde Allende, Mexico, 1968;
Louise Bogan, poet, essayist, critic, New York City, 1970;
Patricia Highsmith, novelist, Locarno, Switzerland, 1995;
Betty Friedan, author, feminist leader, Washington, D.C., 2005.
Quote for the Day: “I am happiest when I am idle. I could live for months without performing any kind of labor and feel fresh and vigorous enough to go right on in the same way.” —
Armetus Ward
February 03, 2010
For those of you who have been following the news might have learned that it snowed last night.
The garden beds looked neat after No. 1 son shoveled the sidewalks. Either their ready for spring planting, or they can be rented as burial plots.
Meanwhile, in the back 40, Samurai Jack is disgruntled.
My activities photographing the snow at the front door drew the attention of Ivan, who was a little dubious about the cold.
Instinct won out, but only as far as the sidewalk. It looks so white! But cold on the paw-paws! Is it worth the risk?
Fortunately, a friend is there to give him a nudge.
Recovering quickly, he races for the trees where he finds shelter from the elements. After awhile, his friend brings Ivan inside, his adventure concluded for the day.
From her spot on the couch, Olga isn’t having any of it.
And they say cats aren’t smart.
There’s a saying on the Internet: Do not feed the troll. A troll is someone who posts inflammatory statements to draw attention to themselves, and the only way to deal with them is to ignore them.
But no keyboard commando holding forth from his parent’s basement could hold a candle to the King Troll of American journalism, Henry Louis Mencken. In his half-century behind the typewriter, Mencken savaged everything he disliked with wit and malice.
As for the Arkansas legislature, the trouble started in January 1931, after farmers in England, Arkansas, battered by the Depression and drought, nearly rioted when Red Cross food shipments were delayed, Mencken wrote in the Baltimore Sun that the people of Arkansas “are too stupid to know what is the matter with them, and even if they are intelligent, they would lack the capital to make a change.”
The politicians protested, although the Arkansas Gazette advised the legislature not to feed the troll, saying people “fail to realize that they are merely playing Mencken’s game when they denounce his denunciations.” But the lawmakers, on this day, passed a motion asking people to pray for Mencken’s soul.
Mencken was unbowed by the threat of divine intercession. "My only defense is that I didn't make Arkansas the butt of ridicule," Mencken said. "God did."
Born: Ignacy Krasicki, poet, satirist, Dubiecko, Poland, 1735;
Gertrude Stein, novelist, poet, Allegheny, Penn., 1874;
Horace Greeley, journalist, newspaper editor, Amherst, N.H., 1811;
James Michener, novelist, Doylestown, Penn., 1907;
Simone Weil, religious philosopher, Paris, 1909;
Joan Lowery Nixon, childrens author, Los Angeles, 1927.
Died: George Crabbe, poet, author, Trowbridge, Wiltshire, 1832;
Everhardus Johannes Potgieter, poet, essayist, literary critic, Amsterdam, 1808;
Robert Tressell (ps. Robert Noonan), novelist, Liverpool, 1911;
Ralph McGill, newspaper editor, Atlanta, Ga., 1969.
Quote for the Day: “[If ‘Tales from the South Pacific’ hadn’t been so successful] it would have been a much harder road and whether I could have surmounted it, I don't know. If I had pressed on and not had any acceptance, I could have been a very bitter guy.” —
James Michener, novelist, who was born today in 1907.
Also from “Writers 365":
February 02, 2010
This entry is a repeat of one that ran last year.
If you’re going to marry into the boss’ family, as John Donne should have learned, it’s best not to tell the father-in-law three weeks after the wedding.
The future Jacobian poet and diplomat, was an ambitious young man. At 25, after serving with the Earl of Essex on his successful military campaigns against the Spanish, he became chief secretary to Sir Thomas Egerton, who was the Lord Keeper of the Great Seal. The appointment not only lodged him in Egerton’s home near the palace at Whitehall, it brought him into contact with his boss’ niece, Anne More.
Love blossomed, and by December of 1601 they were married. Donne waited until this day to write a letter to the bride’s father, George More. After laying out the facts of the matter and confessing that “about three weeks before Christmas we married,” the Jesuit-trained Donne had the audacity to ask More to deal with the situation “as the persuasions of nature, reason, wisdom, and Christianity shall inform you.”
More decided the best response would be to slap Donne into prison. After all, he was Lieutenant of the Tower. But Donne was not high-born enough for the Tower, so he was sent to Fleet Prison instead, along with the priest who married the couple and the witness. Sir Egerton, upset that Donne would romance Anne under his roof, fired him as his secretary.
Eventually, his father-in-law reconciled with John and Anne, but it wasn’t until 1609 that they received the dowery due them. In the meantime, as Donne wrote in a letter to his wife, they were “John Donne, Anne Donne, Un-done.”
Born: William Rose Benet, critical essayist, poet, Fort Hamilton, N.Y., 1886;
James Joyce, novelist, short-story writer, Dublin, 1882;
Ayn Rand, novelist, playwright, essayist, St. Petersburg, Russia, 1905;
James Dickey, poet, novelist, critical essayist, Atlanta, Ga., 1923;
Judith Viorst, children's author, poet, Newark, N.J., 1931;
Thomas M. Disch, sci-fi author, Des Moines, Iowa, 1940.
Died: Anthelme Brillat-Savarin, chef, author, Paris, 1826;
Valery Nicolas Larbaud, novelist, essayist, translator, Vichy, France, 1957;
Richard P. Blackmur, literary critic, 1965;
Bertrand Russell, philosopher, essayist, near Penryndeudraeth, Merioneth, Wales, 1970;
Alistair MacLean, novelist, poet, Munich, W.Germany, 1987.
Quote for the Day: “The most beautiful experience we can have is the mysterious. It is the fundamental emotion which stands at the cradle of true art and true science. Whoever does not know it and can no longer wonder, no longer marvel, is as good as dead, and his eyes are dimmed.” —
Albert Einstein
Also from “Writers 365":
February 01, 2010
This entry is a repeat that ran last year.
At 11 this night in Lincoln, Neb., a 23-year-old travel-stained reporter stopped at the town’s newspaper. He had been traveling for days, writing about the drought. Now, he was waiting anxiously for his newspaper syndicate to wire money. While he waited, he chatted with a young woman who had finished her play review.
Later, the woman would write about the meeting between an obscure reporter and a young Midwestern woman, but who we know as Stephen Crane and Willa Cather.
Imagine the scene: the empty streets, the oppressively warm winds, the water gurgling from a fountain across the street. On a hotel veranda, black waiters were playing banjos for the guests. In the newsroom, the lights were dim, and the telegraph could be heard in the next room, faintly clicking.
Calmly, monotonously, Crane spoke bitterly of his life as a reporter, writing furiously to make money, writing slowly for himself. He had published two novels and to publish the third in a newspaper had to be cut from 55,000 words to 18,000. But “The Red Badge of Courage” had drawn some attention; it might become a book. But he was discouraged: "What I can't do, I can't do at all, and I can't acquire it. I only hold one trump."
"I have never known so bitter a heart in any man as he revealed to me that night,” Cather wrote. Before she left, she tried to comfort Crane. Ten years from now, she said, he’ll look back on this and laugh.
"I can't wait ten years,” he said. “I haven't time." Crane was right. Five years later, he was dead from tuberculosis.
B orn: Charles Nordhoff, aviator, author, London, 1887;
Harry Scherman, founder, Book of the Month Club, Montreal, Quebec, Canada, 1887;
Stephen Potter, humorist, critic, London, 1900;
Langston Hughes, novelist, poet, playwright, memoirist, Joplin, Mo., 1902;
S(idney) J(oseph) Perelman, satirist, essayist, playwright, screenwriter, Brooklyn, N.Y., 1904;
Muriel Spark, playwright, essayist, biographer, Edinburgh, Scotland, 1918;
Galway Kinnell, poet, Providence, R.I., 1927;
Reynolds Price, novelist, essayist, poet, Macon, N.C., 1933.
Died: Mary Wollstonecroft Shelley, novelist, biographer, translator, Bournemouth, England, 1851;
George Cruikshank, illustrator, London, 1878;
Edmond Hamilton, sci-fi author, Lancaster, Calif., 1977;
Herb Caen, columnist, San Francisco, 1997.
Quote for the Day: “To me education is a leading out of what is already there in the pupil’s soul. To Miss Mackey it is a putting in of something that is not there, and that is not what I call education, I call it intrusion.” —
Murial Spark, author of “The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie” (from which the quote is drawn), who was born today in 1918.
Also from “Writers 365":
January 30, 2010
Yesterday was the big day, which I happen to share with Oprah Winfrey, Tom Selleck and Emanuel Swedenborg, so that’s pretty cool. This might also be the last year I could attempt to claim I’m only halfway through my allotted years, which would suck if I thought about it, which I don’t.
That’s also why this post didn’t appear yesterday, because even though my driver’s license says I’m fifty, I don’t really
feel it.
After all, what does fifty feel like? We live, day by day, growing and changing even though for the most part we do the same dam thing. Then, one day, we look in the mirror and think
what the hell?
Of course, I’m not totally blind. I can see the grey in my hair, the way my fingers shake when I hold them up (and the skin folds that’s a major marker. Here’s a hint I learned from the Jergen’s commercials: if you want to know a person’s true age, look at their hands. Haven’t heard of plastic surgery focusing on
that part. Yet.)
So passing fifty doesn’t really say much to me. I’m more happy that I have a job, a steady income, a growing, healthy family and a book in the works.
What’s important is the life going on around you, not the calendar. As Jimmy Buffett says, “You’re here for a good time, not for a long time.”
So if you don’t mind, I’ll get back to work. I’ve got edits to finish up, posts to write, a job to go to, and a life to lead. And I sincerely hope that you’re working toward the life you want to lead as well.
L'Chaim!
January 29, 2010
This item was published last year.
Publishing your novel through an obscure French publisher catering to the dirty book trade may not be a brilliant move, but it was all Vladimir Nabokov could do in 1955. No reputable publisher would touch his story of a pederast’s obsessive affair with a 12-year-old girl. Just the opening words — “Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins” — was enough to send publishers running for their Pepto-Bismol.
So Nabokov published “Lolita” through the Olympia Press in Paris. Although its owner, Maurice Girodias, made money on books such as “There’s A Whip In My Valise” and “Open Mouth,” he used the profits to support avant-garde writers such as Henry Miller and Samuel Beckett.
But “Lolita” was met with silence until novelist Graham Greene named it one of the best novels of 1956 in the Sunday Times. Greene’s endorsement was met with a counterblast by John Gordon in the Sunday Express. In today’s edition, the tabloid’s chief editor called it “the filthiest book I have ever read” and “sheer unrestrained pornography.” The narrator, Humbert Humbert, was “a pervert with a passion for debauching what he calls ‘nymphets’ … The entire book is devoted to an exhaustive, uninhibited and utterly disgusting description of his pursuits and successes.”
“Lolita” became the book to get, both by readers salivating for a filthy read and as a symbol of rebellion, although one wonders how many were disappointed that it wasn’t quite as saucy as Gordon charged. Meanwhile, The New York Times picked up on the slagging between Greene and Gordon, and American publishers smelled profits. Published in the United States in 1958, “Lolita” spent six months on the best-seller list.
Born: Emanuel Swedenborg, mystic, scientist, philosopher, theologian, philologist, Stockholm, 1688;
Thomas Paine, essayist, political philosopher, Thetford, Norfolk, 1737;
Anton Chekhov, playwright, short-story writer, Taganrog, Russia, 1860;
Vicente Ibanez, author, Valencia, Spain, 1867;
Paddy Chayefsky, playwright, screenwriter, New York City, 1923;
Edward Abbey, environmental essayist, Home, Penn., 1927;
Germaine Greer, feminist critic, Melbourne, Victoria, Australia, 1939;
Oprah Winfrey, talk show host, literary advocate, Kosciusko, Miss., 1954;
Virgil Suarez, novelist, short-story writer, poet, Havana, Cuba, 1962;
Bill Peschel, novelist, anthologist, author, Warren, Ohio, 1960.
Died: Aleksandr Pushkin, poet, playwright, St. Petersburg, Russia, 1837,
Edward Lear, nonsense verse writer, poet, painter, San Remo, Italy, 1888;
Herman Joachim Bang, novelist, Ogden, Utah, 1912;
Sara Teasdale, poet, New York City, 1933;
William Allen White, journalist, Emporia, Kan., 1944;
H(enry) L(ouis) Mencken, newspaperman, lexicographer, critic, satirist, Baltimore, 1956;
Robert Frost, poet, Boston, 1963;
Basil Liddell Hart, historian, Marlow, Buckinghamshire, 1970;
H(erbert) E(rnest) Bates, novelist, Canterbury, Kent, 1974;
Frances Goodrich, playwright, screenwriter, New York City, 1984;
Inoue Yasushi, novelist, Tokyo, 1991;
Leslie Fiedler, literary critic, Buffalo, N.Y., 2003;
Janet Frame, novelist, memoirist, Dunedin, New Zealand, 2004;
M(ary) M(argaret) Kaye, novelist, Sussex, England, 2004.
Quote for the Day: “I know for sure that what we dwell on is who we become.” —
Oprah Winfrey, who was born today in 1954.
Also from “Writers 365":
January 28, 2010
Since David Ritchie over at The Comics Journal has been printing
samples of Virgil Partch’s work, I thought I’d bring out “Vip Tosses A Party,” a book that I bought recently at an antique mall that I intended to put up on the site.
Published in 1959, “Vip Throws A Party” combines Virgil Partch’s distinctive line art with several chapters of advice by William McIntype. It opens a window in my parent’s past, when it seemed like everyone drank like a fish, flirted outrageously and were expected to provide their own entertainment. In Chapter 5, there’s a list of suggested songs to sing in close harmony, such as “All Through the Night” (which I assume isn’t the Lou Reed song), “Cockles and Mussels”, “Camptown Races” and “Hallelujah, I’m a Bum.”
Someone was expected not just sing, but play the piano as well. The next chapter contained a list of suggested songs by Gershwin, Kern, Porter and Rodgers and Hart.
But the majority of the book was filled out with Vip’s distinctive drawings. Today, I’ll focus on a few of the party ones. Tomorrow, I’ll post several of his art dealing with that specific after-effect of these types of parties: the hangovers.
First, some typical gender-defining humor of the “Mad Men” era.
Risque pictures make up a huge part of this book, with a lot of nekkid pix of women (but no men, of course). Here’s a typical sample.
Vip liked doing strange things with his line art. The woman's broken arms really adds to the bizarre factor.
A typical alcohol joke. Looking at this makes my head ache:
The typical office party. To see the details, click on this to embiggen:
Finally, I couldn’t resist this one. Wonder if Amnesty International ever sent him a letter?
Tomorrow: The various kinds of hangovers according to Vip.
