That would be a good thing for them to cut on my tombstone: Wherever she went, including here, it was against her better judgment.
Dorothy ParkerTags: humor epitaph the-new-yorker
I'm never going to accomplish anything; that's perfectly clear to me. I'm never going to be famous. My name will never be writ large on the roster of Those Who Do Things. I don't do anything. Not one single thing. I used to bite my nails, but I don't even do that any more.
Dorothy ParkerTags: obscurity the-new-yorker inconsequence
Tonstant Weader fwowed up.
Dorothy ParkerTags: the-new-yorker
The House Beautiful is, for me, the play lousy.
Dorothy ParkerTags: critic the-new-yorker review
Salary is no object: I want only enough to keep body and soul apart.
Dorothy ParkerTags: the-new-yorker
ANOTHER TWILIGHT
Allow the point of the Croccodrillo
its hazy cypress trees in profile
Like a rough sketch for the Isle
of the Dead, as seen from yellow
stucco, his Villa Igea where Lawrence
finished "Sons and Lovers," wild thyme
scenting olive-grove grass, crime
scenery come back to more than once.
Again you're mirrored in lake shadow,
a white sail flaking on its turquoise
wavelets, keep awake by traffic noise
Along the Gardesana...and you know
that this beauty's unbearable as before
even if seen from its opposite shore.
Tags: the-new-yorker cypress-trees
If you try to write posthumously, however, fashion doesn’t apply. You step off the catwalk, ignoring this season’s trends and resigning yourself to being unfashionable and possibly unnoticed, at least for a while. As Kurt Woolf, Kafka’s first publisher in Germany, wrote to him after Kafka’s book tanked, “You and we know that it is generally just the best and most valuable things that do not find their echo immediately.” Fashion is the attempt to evade that principle: to be the echo of someone else’s success and, therefore, to create nothing that might create an echo of its own.
Jeffrey EugenidesTags: the-new-yorker page-turner posthumous
Reading is rapture (or if it isn't, I put the book down meaning to go on with it later, and escape out the side door).
William MaxwellTags: editor the-new-yorker novelist
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