Best 233 quotes in «biography quotes» category

After moving his family from Yakima to Paradise, California, in 1958, he enrolled at Chico State College. There, he began an apprenticeship under the soon-to-be-famous John Gardner, the first "real writer" he had ever met. "He offered me the key to his office," Carver recalled in his preface to Gardner’s On Becoming a Novelist (1983). "I see that gift now as a turning point." In addition, Gardner gave his student "close, line-by-line criticism" and taught him a set of values that was "not negotiable." Among these values were convictions that Carver held until his death. Like Gardner, whose On Moral Fiction (1978) decried the "nihilism" of postmodern formalism, Carver maintained that great literature is life-connected, life-affirming, and life-changing. "In the best fiction," he wrote "the central character, the hero or heroine, is also the ‘moved’ character, the one to whom something happens in the story that makes a difference. Something happens that changes the way that character looks at himself and hence the world." Through the 1960s and 1970s he steered wide of the metafictional "funhouse" erected by Barth, Barthelme and Company, concentrating instead on what he called "those basics of old-fashioned storytelling: plot, character, and action." Like Gardner and Chekhov, Carver declared himself a humanist. "Art is not self-expression," he insisted, "it’s communication.

After earning a degree in Marketing at Auburn University, I spent the next five years in the business world, which is a polite way of saying that I had eleven jobs in a five-year period, including door to door sales, skip tracing people who didn’t want to be found, repossessing cars and collecting on defaulted student loans. During this five-year period, I did an in-depth study of abnormal psychology and sociopathic behavior – and then I divorced him.

Alexander Berkman was a self-declared atheist attempting to lift the stultifying fog of the gods from the mind of humankind.

Bethune was a communist and an atheist with a healthy contempt for his evangelical father.

A garden with a variety of flowers beats a garden with one hundred flowers of the same type. Differences in society present an opportunity to learn and grow. How boring would it be if everyone believed and did the same thing?

Bentham was an atheist and in no sense of the word could he be described as a theologian.

—a knowledgeable man is a free man, or at least a man who longs for freedom.

And I *know* I wrote in the above that I hate biographies and reviews that focus on the psychological, surface detail, especially when they pertain to women writers, because I think it’s really about the cult of the personality, which is essentially problematic, and I think simplistically psychologizing which biographies are so wont to do is really problematic, and dangerous, especially when dealing with complicated women who just by being writers at a certain time and age were labelled as nonconformist, or worse, hysterical or ill or crazy, and I think branding these women as femme fatales is all so often done. And I know in a way I’m contributing to this by posting their bad-ass photos, except hopefully I am humanizing them and thinking of them as complicated selves and intellects AND CELEBRATING THEM AS WRITERS as opposed to straight-up objectifying. One particular review long ago in Poetry that really got my goat was when Brian Phillips used Gertrude Stein’s line about Djuna Barnes having nice ankles as an opener in a review of her poetry, and to my mind it was meant to be entirely dismissive, as of course, Stein was being as well. Stein was many important revolutionary things to literature, but a champion of her fellow women writers she was not. They published my letter, but then let the guy write a reply and scurry to the library and actually read Nightwood, one of my all-time, all-times, and Francis Bacon’s too, there’s another anecdote. And it’s burned in my brain his response, which was as dismissive and bourgeois as the review. I don’t remember the exact wordage, but he concluded by summing up that Djuna Barnes was a minor writer. Well, fuck a duck, as Henry Miller would say. And that is how the canon gets made.

Always do what you're afraid to do"-Robert F. Kennedy

And Grace Fryer was never forgotten. She is still remembered now - you are still remembering her now. As a dial-painter, she glowed gloriously from the radium powder; but as a woman, she shines through history with an even brighter glory: stronger than the bones that broke inside her body; more powerful than the radium that killed her or the company that shamelessly lied through its teeth; living longer than she ever did on earth, because she now lives on in the hearts and memories of those who know her only from her story.

Anyone who has lived a full life has something fascinating to share with the world.

Anyone who likes or hates Dana White should take a look at this.

Almost nothing is known about Homer, which explains why so much has been written about him.

A regime that can suspend or abrogate the constitution and run the country on its whims and caprice should be ashamed of bringing on its lips the word "law". It is like prescribing a punishment for adultery after raping the country. It is like saying that Holy Quran is suspended nobody can escape from the Hadees.

[As a very young man, I thought] of Europe as a place that could not exist except in the imagination, in glorious dreams, and through the careful lies of the silver screen.

Apesar de eu não saber ler, distinguia bem entre as letras hebraicas, impressas no lado esquerdo do devocionário, e as alemãs, no lado direito. As hebraicas agradavam-me mais: vistosas, arredondadas, levavam, por cima e por baixo, pontinhos e tracinhos, dançavam, por assim dizer, livremente no espaço, enquanto as alemãs, impressas a duas colunas, eram magrinhas, hirtas, bem comportadas. O lado das letras hebraicas fazia pensar uma cabeça endiabrada, cheia de caracóis; o outro, das letras alemãs, na cabeça bem penteada duma senhora idosa, com monótona risca ao meio.

As the wildly favorable word of mouth spread, however, the box office receipts began to soar. First, fans of musicals came. Then the ever-growing cadre of Julie Andrews devotees. Finally, those longing for a happy ending—anywhere—began to turn out in droves. At which point the oddest thing of all happened: all these fans of the movie returned to see it again. And then once more. And then once again—until the phenomenon eventually resulted in a record-setting first release run of over four and a half years.

A popular Harvard business professor urged his students to read the obituaries in the New York Times before they read anything else, in order to learn from the lives of great men.

Being a free-spirited, strong-willed, independent young woman (to put it mildly), with a manic-depressive, woman-hating father was exhausting (to put it mildly).

Before the magisterial mess of Trevor Thomas's house, the orderly houses that most of us live in seem meagre and lifeless -- as, in the same way, the narratives called biographies pale and shrink in the face of the disorderly actuality that is a life. The house also stirred my imagination as a metaphor for the problem of writing. Each person who sits down to write faces not a blank page but his own overfilled mind. The problem is to clear out most of what is in it . . . The goal is to make a space where a few ideas and images and feelings may be so arranged that a reader will want to linger awhile among them, rather than to flee, as I wanted to flee from Thomas's house.

Be realistic, Aiden, I told myself. You know your value to the penny and it's measured in inches, time, age, stamina, looks, and being able to put up with gross and sometimes bizarre situations. Personality was far down on a much longer list, and even farther down came intelligence. You should have insisted on having sex.

Between the sands of time is a multitude of truths untold.

Biographers rue the destruction or loss of letters; they might also curse the husband and wife who never leave each other’s side, and thus perform a kind of epistolary abortion.

Because I always feel like running Not away, because there is no such place Because if there was, I would have found it by now Because it's easier to run, Easier than staying and finding out you're the only one who didn't run Because running will be the way your life and mine will be described, As in "the long run" Or as in having "given someone a run for his money" Or as in "running out of time" Because running makes me look like everyone else, though I hope there will never be cause for that Because I will be running in the other direction, not running for cover Because if I knew where cover was, I would stay there and never have to run for it Not running for my life, because I have to be running for something of more value to be running and not in fear Because the thing I fear cannot be escaped, eluded, avoided, hidden from, protected from, gotten away from, Not without showing the fear as I see it now Because closer, clearer, no sir, nearer Because of you and because of that nice That you quietly, quickly be causing And because you're going to see me run soon and because you're going to know why I'm running then You'll know then Because I'm not going to tell you now

Books, for me, are a home. Books don't make a home - they are one, in the sense that just as you do with a door, you open a book, and you go inside. Inside there is a different kind of time and space. There is warmth there too - a hearth. I sit down with a book and I'm warm.

But the truth is, nothing delights me more than a biography of one of the truly great that proves he or she was an absolute shit.

But artists didn't need to achieve "firsts", and Hughes wanted to be an artist.

By now, he was also a 'Protestant Atheist', which he remained all his life.

Christine did not live, or love, as most people do. She lived boundlessly, as generous as she could be cruel, prepared to give her life at any moment for a worthy cause, but rarely sparing a thought for the many casualties that fell in her wake.

Catch on fire with enthusiasm, and people will come for miles to watch you burn

Biography is the medium through which the remaining secrets of the famous dead are taken from them and dumped out in full view of the world. The biographer at work, indeed, is like the professional burglar, breaking into a house, rifling through certain drawers that he has good reason to think contain the jewelry and money, and triumphantly bearing his loot away. The voyeurism and busybodyism that impel writers and readers of biography alike are obscured by an apparatus of scholarship designed to give the enterprise an appearance of banklike blandness and solidity. The biographer is portrayed almost as a kind of benefactor. He is seen as sacrificing years of his life to his task, tirelessly sitting in archives and libraries and patiently conducting interviews with witnesses. There is no length he will not go to, and the more his book reflects his industry the more the reader believes that he is having an elevating literary experience, rather than simply listening to backstairs gossip and reading other people’s mail. The transgressive nature of biography is rarely acknowledged, but it is the only explanation for biography’s status as a popular genre. The reader’s amazing tolerance (which he would extend to no novel written half as badly as most biographies) makes sense only when seen as a kind of collusion between him and the biographer in an excitingly forbidden undertaking: tiptoeing down the corridor together, to stand in front of the bedroom door and try to peep through the keyhole.

Deep down we all know that freedom is a choice, yet so many of us don’t feel that truth.

December 29, 1946: Snowing this morning. The year seems to be dying in a light white blanket. Only three more days of this year, then comes a new one. Then, what? No one knows. -- Diary of Bertha Kate Gaddis who passed away 6 months later, age 78, West Lafayette, IN.

Emotions are like passing storms, and you have to remind yourself that it won't rain forever.

Delores was hot! She was a very attractive woman in her mid-thirties, which at my age I considered to be an older woman. She lived in Dumont, New Jersey, and my mother suggested that I visit her and confirm the arrangements she had made with her brother. That Saturday I caught a Public Service bus from Journal Square to Dumont. It didn’t take long to get there and before I knew it, I was at her door. Delores was a divorcee and I enjoyed the feeling that she liked me. She didn’t do anything inappropriate, but I felt that she would have if she could have! Knowing that she was a coworker and friend of my mother, her very close presence seemed awkward. Sitting on her living room couch so close to her was exciting, so I didn’t move away. I was amazed at her television set and was torn between looking at her cleavage and looking at this new contraption that could receive moving pictures through the air.

Desolina and Tony had attended one-room schoolhouses until the third grade. ... According to Tony, there were hardly enough pencils and sober teachers to go around. [Author's grandparents educational background.]

Escape is a process, not a pill.

Enfim, por alguma razão se fazem as guerras, respondeu o avô, levantando as sobrancelhas. Só nas guerras é que os homens podem matar-se uns aos outros sem serem castigados.

England has her Stratford, Scotland has her Alloway, and America, too, has her Dresden. For there, on August 11, 1833, was born the greatest and noblest of the Western World; an immense personality, -- unique, lovable, sublime; the peerless orator of all time, and as true a poet as Nature ever held in tender clasp upon her loving breast, and, in words coined for the chosen few, told of the joys and sorrows, hopes, dreams, and fears of universal life; a patriot whose golden words and deathless deeds were worthy of the Great Republic; a philanthropist, real and genuine; a philosopher whose central theme was human love, -- who placed 'the holy hearth of home' higher than the altar of any god; an iconoclast, a builder -- a reformer, perfectly poised, absolutely honest, and as fearless as truth itself -- the most aggressive and formidable foe of superstition -- the most valiant champion of reason -- Robert G. Ingersoll.

Even as individuals become families and families become communities, and communities become nations, so eventually must the nations draw together in peace.

Find It, Live It, Love It.

For a once renowned woman who loved telling tales of dodging bullets, wielding grenades and subverting dogs trained to kill, Christine's story is, surprisingly, little known today.

Every time i see a butterfly, it reminds me of how precious life can truly be. To be able to turn from a caterpillar into a beautiful butterfly and fly away so freely and gracefully wherever she may please, without no one in the world to tell her what to do. I wait for that special moment in time when I get to live freely, without no worries, pain or tears. I just want to be happy. I want the laughter in the air without all of the pain. One special day I’ll get to live my life just like that beautiful butterfly. I will no longer feel blue inside.

Feeling free is a choice that is ours for the making, ours for the taking at any time, at any age.

Freedom is found within.

Freedom is found within, in the shape of our laughter and the way we love, in the truths that we live by and the stories we become

Freedom is the willingness and ability to choose your own path and experience your life as your true self.

Freedom was my daring travel companion on the thrilling ride of life.

Freedom wanders in the landscape of the mind, and nourishes the deepest yearnings of the soul.

Freedom seeking is the path to coming alive again.