My filing case opens out into a very convenient portable bar, and the bartender, who lives in the bottom drawer, is a midget named Harry Cohn.
H. L. Mencken and Philip Goodman became close friends while growing up in the German-American neighborhood of West Baltimore. In 1918, Goodman (now a New York bon vivant loosely associated with the publishing industry) sent Mencken a letter paying tribute … Continued
Sir, I desire an interview; meet me at sunrise, or sunset, or the new moon—the place is immaterial. In gold, or in purple, or sackcloth—I look not up on the raiment.
I am still at war with Field, who turned out to be a rat, and am forcing him to delete or alter all sorts of tripe in his book about me.
My dismissal from moderate employment in 1865 by the Secretary of the Interior, Mr. Harlan, avowedly for the sole reason of my being the author of “Leaves of Grass,” still affords an indication of the high conventional feeling.
There is something strange and mysterious about our feeling (for I certainly feel the same way) that our work is not the “real thing,” that it cannot be counted among the absolutely valid, authentic, and enduring classics. In part, this feeling has an objective basis, the fact that the great, authentic classics have withstood the test that still lies ahead of living writers…
I fear Tolstoy’s death. His death would leave a large empty space in my life. First, I have loved no man the way I have loved him.
I do appreciate the table-mat correspondence and I hate to bring a touch of gloom into the Friday Club but this place is straight asshole…
I am amazed at my own selfishness. When I bought the book I felt like a worm.
During the Great Depression John Steinbeck traveled through the Central Valley, recording observations of impoverished agrarian communities for the San Francisco Chronicle. In the midst of one such assignment, Steinbeck declines an invitation to the Jackson family home in San … Continued