Name That Author

[Cynic]

Not a bad guess, but no, it’s not Mark Twain -- or any other American cynic.

Here’s another quote from the author, who is having the narcissistic, criminal protagonist of one of his most well-known works articulate his views about extraordinary personalities having a right to act outside of moral constraints:

Raskolnikov smiled again. He saw the point at once, and knew where they wanted to drive him. He decided to take up the challenge.

"That wasn't quite my contention," he began simply and modestly. "Yet I admit that you have stated it almost correctly; perhaps, if you like, perfectly so." (It almost gave him pleasure to admit this.) "The only difference is that I don't contend that extraordinary people are always bound to commit breaches of morals, as you call it. In fact, I doubt whether such an argument could be published. I simply hinted that an 'extraordinary' man has the right... that is not an official right, but an inner right to decide in his own conscience to overstep... certain obstacles, and only in case it is essential for the practical fulfilment of his idea (sometimes, perhaps, of benefit to the whole of humanity). You say that my article isn't definite; I am ready to make it as clear as I can. Perhaps I am right in thinking you want me to; very well. I maintain that if the discoveries of Kepler and Newton could not have been made known except by sacrificing the lives of one, a dozen, a hundred, or more men, Newton would have had the right, would indeed have been in duty bound... to eliminate the dozen or the hundred men for the sake of making his discoveries known to the whole of humanity. But it does not follow from that that Newton had a right to murder people right and left and to steal every day in the market. Then, I remember, I maintain in my article that all... well, legislators and leaders of men, such as Lycurgus, Solon, Mahomet, Napoleon, and so on, were all without exception criminals, from the very fact that, making a new law, they transgressed the ancient one, handed down from their ancestors and held sacred by the people, and they did not stop short at bloodshed either, if that bloodshed- often of innocent persons fighting bravely in defence of ancient law- were of use to their cause. It's remarkable, in fact, that the majority, indeed, of these benefactors and leaders of humanity were guilty of terrible carnage. In short, I maintain that all great men or even men a little out of the common, that is to say capable of giving some new word, must from their very nature be criminals- more or less, of course. Otherwise it's hard for them to get out of the common rut; and to remain in the common rut is what they can't submit to, from their very nature again, and to my mind they ought not, indeed, to submit to it. You see that there is nothing particularly new in all that. The same thing has been printed and read a thousand times before. As for my division of people into ordinary and extraordinary, I acknowledge that it's somewhat arbitrary, but I don't insist upon exact numbers. I only believe in my leading idea that men are in general divided by a law of nature into two categories, inferior (ordinary), that is, so to say, material that serves only to reproduce its kind, and men who have the gift or the talent to utter a new word. There are, of course, innumerable sub-divisions, but the distinguishing features of both categories are fairly well marked. The first category, generally speaking, are men conservative in temperament and law-abiding; they live under control and love to be controlled. To my thinking it is their duty to be controlled, because that's their vocation, and there is nothing humiliating in it for them. The second category all transgress the law; they are destroyers or disposed to destruction according to their capacities. The crimes of these men are of course relative and varied; for the most part they seek in very varied ways the destruction of the present for the sake of the better. But if such a one is forced for the sake of his idea to step over a corpse or wade through blood, he can, I maintain, find within himself, in his conscience, a sanction for wading through blood- that depends on the idea and its dimensions, note that. It's only in that sense I speak of their right to crime in my article (you remember it began with the legal question). There's no need for such anxiety, however; the masses will scarcely ever admit this right, they punish them or hang them (more or less), and in doing so fulfil quite justly their conservative vocation. But the same masses set these criminals on a pedestal in the next generation and worship them (more or less). The first category is always the man of the present, the second the man of the future. The first preserve the world and people it, the second move the world and lead it to its goal. Each class has an equal right to exist. In fact, all have equal rights with me- and vive la guerre eternelle- till the New Jerusalem, of course!"

[bfh]

Sounds like Russian angst - Dostoevsky?

[Cynic]

Sounds like Russian angst - Dostoevsky?

Very good. Yes, it's Dostoevsky.

[bfh]

New Author:

Indian summer is like a woman. Ripe, hotly passionate, but fickle, she comes and goes as she

pleases so that one is never sure whether she will come at all, nor for how long she will stay.

In northern New England, Indian summer puts up a scarlet-tipped hand to hold winter back for

a little while...Those grown old, who have had the youth bled from them by the jagged edged

winds of winter, know sorrowfully that Indian summer is a sham to be met with hard-eyed cynicism.

But the young wait anxiously, scanning the chill autumn skies for a sign of her coming.

And sometimes the old, against all the warnings of better judgment, wait with the young and hopeful,

their tired, winter eyes turned heavenward to seek the first traces of a false softening.

[anotherDan]

Thoreau?

[bfh]

Thoreau?

Nope, not even really close.

[bfh]

Another quote:

"There goes Evelyn's boy," said Caroline Page to her sister.

Charlotte came to the window and saw Norman hurrying down the street.

"Little bastard," she said viciously.

"No," sighed Caroline. "And that's the pity of it all. Better if he were a bastard than what he is."

"He'll always be a bastard as far as I'm concerned," said Charlotte. "The bastard son of a whoring woman."

The two sisters bit off these words as crisply as if they had been chewing celery, and the fact that these same words

in print would have been an occasion for book banning and of shocked consultation with the church did not bother them at all,

for they had the excuse of righteous indignation on their side.

[WordWolf]

I think I've read that last sentence before. Where?

Nathaniel Hawthorne???

[bfh]

Nope, not Hawthorne.

The following is quoted from one scene; I broke it up in order to improve readability:

Lucas Cross slapped his stepdaughter a stunning blow on the side of the head.

Selena staggered halfway across the room and fell heavily to the floor...Selena got up from the floor,

and the coffeepot which she had not dropped when she fell now flew across the room in a direct line with Lucas' head.

The coffeepot sailed past Lucas' head and crashed against the wall behind him.

"You little bitch," he shouted. "You goddamn little bitch. I'll teach you!"

He held Selena with one hand and slapped her face. Back and forth, back and forth went his big hand.

Selena fought with all her strength. She kick and tried to get close enough to Lucas to sink her teeth into him.

"You bastard!" she yelled.

"Reglar dirty-mouthed little bitch," said Lucas. "Just like your old lady. I'll teach you, same's I taught her!

Don't do no good to be decent to you. If it wasn't for me you'da starved to death, just like your old lady.

I been decent to you just as if you was my own. Kept a roof over your head and food in your belly."

Back and forth, back and forth went his enormous hand, striking another blow with every word he spoke.

At last Selena managed to tear herself away from him. She drew back her fist and slammed it into Lucas'

mouth as hard as she could, and the man yelped with rage..He grabbed at Selena and when she wrenched away from his grasp,

he was left holding the entire front of the girl's blouse. Selena backed away from Lucas, her breasts naked

and heaving in the light of the room's unshaded electric bulb, her shoulders still covered ridiculously by the sleeves of the faded cotton blouse...

Lucas dropped his hands and stared at Selena. Slowly, he began to walk toward here while she, just as slowly, began to move backward...

"Yep," said Lucas, "you're gettin' to be quite a gal, honey."

Slowly, he raised his two grimy hands, and his forehead moved when he smiled his grotesque smile.

Selena's scream ripped the stillness with a sound like tearing fabric, and from behind Allison there came another scream.

It was Joey, running frantically toward the door of the shack. He almost fell through the door, and still he screamed.

"Don't you dare put your hands on Selena! I'll kill you if you put your hands on Selena."

The little boy stood in front of his sister, and like a horse swishing his tail, Lucas Cross swept him away.

The child lay still on the floor of the shack, and Lucas said, "Yep. Gettin' to be quite a gal, ain't you honey."

Clue: This book was published in the 50's.

Edited July 30, 2008 by bfh

[doojable]

This reminds me of McCullers... so I'm going to guess Faulkner.

[bfh]

This reminds me of McCullers... so I'm going to guess Faulkner.

Not Faulkner, and not a southern writer, although, now that you pointed it out, it does have that southern flavor to it.

However, it is a woman author and some critics referred to her as "the Pandora in blue jeans."

This novel was publishing's second blockbuster (the first being Gone with the Wind)

and sold 60 thousand copies within the first ten days of release.

It remained on the New York Times bestseller list for 59 weeks.

[doojable]

I just googled your clue. I gotta admit I've never heard of her. But I am going to read some of her work!

[bfh]

Unfortunately, this author died at the age of 39, and never achieved the same success with her other three novels.

But, this particular novel caused quite a stir; many people called for a book ban, and critics called it trash.

She blew the lid off the 1950's "Leave it to Beaver" myth, and dealt open and honestly with incest, domestic violence (up to and including murder), adultery, and abortion. She also wrote scathing social commentary concerning the differences between the acceptable, upstanding citizens of this quiet New England town and the undesirables, who lived in the "shacks."

It's a good read, I think you'll enjoy it.

[doojable]

Okay, then let me recommend A Clock Without Hands by Carson McCullers.

[bfh]

Okay, then let me recommend A Clock Without Hands by Carson McCullers.

Dooj, thanks, I like getting book recommendations, since I'm always looking for a good book.

I enjoyed The Heart is a Lonely Hunter, and now I'm wondering why I never followed up and read more of her books, which I usually do when I like an author.

Now, I will definitely put A Clock Without Hands on my reading list.

[bfh]

I think it's time to move on:

The author's name is Grace Metalious.

All the above quotes were taken from her highly successful novel, Peyton Place.

-----------------------------------------------------

New Author:

But there is a fatality, a feeling so irresistible and inevitable that it has the force of doom,

which almost invariably compels human beings to linger around and haunt, ghost-like, the spot

where some great and marked event has given the color to their lifetime; and still the more irresistibly,

the darker the tinge that saddens it. Her sin, her ignominy, were the roots which she had struck into the soil.

Then, she was supported by an unnatural tension of the nerves, and by all the combative energy of her character,

which enabled her to convert the scene into a kind of lurid triumph. It was, moreover, a separate and insulated event,

to occur but once in her lifetime, and to meet which, therefore, reckless of economy she might call up the vital strength

that would have sufficed for many quiet years. The very law that condemned her - a giant of stern features, but with

vigor to support, as well as to annihilate, in his iron arm - had held her up, through the terrible ordeal of her ignominy.

But now, with this unattended walk from her prison door, began the daily custom; and she must either sustain and

carry it forward by the ordinary resources of her nature, or sink beneath it. She could no longer borrow from the future

to help her through the present grief.

[doojable]

bfh - you should enjoy that book. I'll warn you that it's about as somber (or moreso) as The Heart is a Lonely Hunter.

I'm not sure, but I think that Carson McCullers wrote the two books so that the stories took place close to each other. I think she was influenced by Faulkner - but I never really did any research to prove it.

[wrdsandwrks]

I think it's time to move on:

The author's name is Grace Metalious.

All the above quotes were taken from her highly successful novel, Peyton Place.

-----------------------------------------------------

New Author:

But there is a fatality, a feeling so irresistible and inevitable that it has the force of doom,

which almost invariably compels human beings to linger around and haunt, ghost-like, the spot

where some great and marked event has given the color to their lifetime; and still the more irresistibly,

the darker the tinge that saddens it. Her sin, her ignominy, were the roots which she had struck into the soil.

Then, she was supported by an unnatural tension of the nerves, and by all the combative energy of her character,

which enabled her to convert the scene into a kind of lurid triumph. It was, moreover, a separate and insulated event,

to occur but once in her lifetime, and to meet which, therefore, reckless of economy she might call up the vital strength

that would have sufficed for many quiet years. The very law that condemned her - a giant of stern features, but with

vigor to support, as well as to annihilate, in his iron arm - had held her up, through the terrible ordeal of her ignominy.

But now, with this unattended walk from her prison door, began the daily custom; and she must either sustain and

carry it forward by the ordinary resources of her nature, or sink beneath it. She could no longer borrow from the future

to help her through the present grief.

I remember the primetime "soap opera" Peyton Place on TV in the 60s. Not that I ever watched it, but I remember it was big with the older generation.

Could the new quote be Nathaniel Hawthorne?

Edited July 31, 2008 by wrdsandwrks

[bfh]

I remember the primetime "soap opera" Peyton Place on TV in the 60s. Not that I ever watched it, but I remember it was big with the older generation.

Could the new quote be Nathaniel Hawthorne?

I remember the TV show also, and like you, I didn't watch it. But, I think it was a big hit.

There was also a movie adapted from this novel, named, of course, Peyton Place. I watched it not long ago on, I believe, AMC.

And yes, it is Nathaniel Hawthorne, The Scarlet Letter.

You're up, wrds.

Edited July 31, 2008 by bfh

[wrdsandwrks]

“..., who was the fellow who on looking at something felt like somebody looking at something? I learned the passage at school. But it has escaped me.”

“I fancy the individual you have in mind, sir, is the poet Keats, who compared his emotions on first reading Chapman’s Homer to those of stout Cortez when with eagle eyes he stared at the Pacific.”

[wrdsandwrks]

His first emotion was one of surprise that so much human tonnage could have been assembled at one spot. A cannibal king, beholding them, would have whooped with joy and reached for his knife and fork with the feeling that for once, the catering department had not failed him.

His whole attitude recalled irresistibly to the mind that of some assiduous hound who will persist in laying a dead rat on the drawing-room carpet, though repeatedly apprised by word and gesture that the market for same is sluggish or even non-existent.

While they were content to peck cautiously at the ball, he never spared himself in his efforts to do it a violent injury.

It was as if nature had intended to make a gorilla and had changed its mind at the last moment.

He had the look of an ostrich that had swallowed a door knob.

``What was that about glue?''

``Igloo, it's a sort of gloo they have up in the Arctic circle.''

``I see.''

``Stickier than the usual kind.''

His manner was now meek and conciliatory, like that of a black-beetle which sees the cook reaching for the insect powder and does its best to show her that it fully realises that it has brought this on itself.

``Have you ever seen Spode eat asparagus?''

``No.''

``Revolting. It alters one's whole conception of Man as Nature's last word.''

Her voice trailed away in a sigh that was like the wind blowing through the cracks in a broken heart.

``Didn't Frankenstein get married?''

``Did he?'' said Eggy. ``I don't know. I never met him. Harrow man, I expect.''

He felt like a man who, chasing rainbows, has had one of them suddenly turn and bite him in the leg.

The girl had as many curves as a scenic railway.

It looked something like a pen wiper and something like a piece of hearth-rug. A second and keener inspection revealed it as a Pekinese puppy.

Unseen, in the background, Fate was quietly slipping the lead into the boxing glove.

`The moment my fingers clutch a pen,' said Leila Yorke, `a great change comes over me. I descend to the depths of goo which you with your pure mind with wouldn't believe possible. I write about stalwart men, strong but oh so gentle, and girls with wide grey eyes and hair the colour of ripe wheat, who are always having misunderstandings and goign to Africa. The men, that is. The girls stay at home and marry the wrong bimbos. But there's a happy ending. The bimbos break their necks in the hunting field and the men come back in the last chapter and they and the girls get together in hte twilight, and all around is the scent of English flowers and birds singing their evensong in the shrubbery. Makes me shudder to think of it.'

His hand moved upwards, and I think his idea was to bare his head reverently. The project was, however, rendered null and void by the fact that he hadn't a hat on.

[anotherDan]

The girl had as many curves as a scenic railway.

[wrdsandwrks]

The girl had as many curves as a scenic railway.

The guy knew how to "turn a phrase" didn't he?

Okay, here are some hints:

He was definitely British although he lived in both France and the United States too. He was born in 1881 and died in 1975. He was a prolific author, writing 96 novels from 1902 to 1975 and many collections of short stories.

more to come...

[wrdsandwrks]

from Wikipedia:

...'s characters are often eccentric, with peculiar attachments, such as to pigs, newts, or socks. His "mentally negligible" good-natured characters invariably make their lot worse by their half-witted schemes to improve a bad situation.

...'s aristocrats, however, embody many of the comic attributes that characterize buffoons. In many cases the classic eccentricities of ...'s upperclass give rise to plot complications.

Relatives, especially aunts and uncles, are commonly depicted with an exaggerated power to help or impede marriage or financial prospects, or simply to make life miserable. Friends are often more a trouble than a comfort in his stories: the main character is typically being placed in a most painful situation just to please a friend. Antagonists (particularly rivals in love) are frequently terrifying and just as often get their come-uppance in a delicious fashion.

Policemen and magistrates are typically portrayed as threatening, yet easy to fool, often through the simple expedient of giving a false name. A recurring motif is the theft of policemen's helmets.

In a manner going back to the stock characters of Roman comedy (such as Plautus), ...'s servants are frequently far cleverer than their masters. This is quintessentially true with his most famous character, who always pulls his employer out of the direst scrapes.

[wrdsandwrks]

One more quote:

Jeeves--my man, you know--is really a most extraordinary chap. So capable.

Honestly, I shouldn't know what to do without him. On broader lines he's

like those chappies who sit peering sadly over the marble battlements

at the Pennsylvania Station in the place marked "Inquiries." You know

the Johnnies I mean. You go up to them and say: "When's the next train

for Melonsquashville, Tennessee?" and they reply, without stopping to

think, "Two-forty-three, track ten, change at San Francisco." And they're

right every time. Well, Jeeves gives you just the same impression of

omniscience.