Wednesday, December 23, 2015

"Die Hard" for your holiday viewing

Die Hard and Die Hard 2, taking place at Christmas, are definitely on the list for holiday viewing, and you can add Die Hard: With a Vengeance to the playlist, too. Sure, it takes place in the summer (presumably late summer, since school is in session), but it gives a nod to the Christmas setting of the first two movies in several scenes:

After he blows Bonwit Teller's Fifth Avenue store to bits, terrorist Simon Gruber (Jeremy Irons) forces Lt. John McClane (Bruce Willis) to walk the streets of Harlem wearing a racist placard. Shop owner Zeus Carver (Samuel L. Jackson) helps McClane and the pair have made it safely back to the station house when Gruber calls the head of Major Crimes:

Gruber: Where are my pigeons now?
Inspector Cobb: Pigeons?
Gruber: I had two pigeons, bright and gay, fly from me the other day. Why was it they did go? You cannot tell, you do not know.
Inspector Cobb: You mean McClane?
Gruber: No, I mean Santa Claus.
Soon after, most of NYPD converges on the financial district after a subway explodes under Wall Street. McClane and Carver stop a kid stealing from a sidewalk vendor and have this exchange:

Kid #1: It's Christmas. You could steal City Hall.
McClane: Come on.
[Carver and McClane take the kids' bikes]
Kid #1: My bike?
McClane: Let's go. Come on.
Kid #1: That's my bike!
Carver: Yeah, it's Christmas!
McClane: [to terrorists stopped in a tunnel] Hi, fellas. Mickey O'Brien, aqueduct security. Hey, listen, we got a report of a guy coming through here with, uh, eight reindeer.
[shoots the terrorists]
McClane: Yeah, they said he was a jolly, old, fat guy with a snowy, white beard. Cute little red and white suit. I'm surprised you didn't see him.
[Bomb squad expert is defusing the bomb in Chester A. Arthur Elementary School]
Expert: Six booby traps, four dead ends, "and a Partridge in a pear tree." Okay, honey. Let's dance.

There may be more, but these references should be enough to satisfy fans of the franchise. I haven't yet logged the Christmas connections in the fourth and fifth movies, having seen IV only six times and V only three, but will keep you posted! btw, although Willis has stated, "At the moment, I can run and I can fight on screen. But there will come a time when I no longer want to do that. That's when I’ll step away from the Die Hard films," a sixth installment is planned.

Saturday, November 7, 2015

Read an excerpt from...

Read an excerpt from my story "Speech to the Prometheus League" in the new Gothic Tales of Terror anthology from Verto Publishing. The Kindle version is available now, with the print version to follow soon. John and I both have stories in Indiana Horror Review 2015 out on Kindle now, too. Happy reading!

Gothic Tales of Terror:

Also, check out all my publications on my author's page now up on Amazon, at

Monday, October 19, 2015

Disaster Averted

Something nice happened this afternoon that I feared was going to end badly.

I was sitting under a tree near the back fence supervising our cat Sweet Pea's daily outing (we've been limiting her outdoor activities since she recently spent five days up another tree, fell when the rescuer reached her, and disappeared for three days) and talking to a new cat hiding under the honeysuckle bush hoping to get her to come to me. On the other side of the chain-link fence is the parking lot of an elementary school with a playground on the same lot, and there is a cut-through between houses three doors away, so many people come through the parking lot in the course of a day. (It was empty for one more day today, after Fall Break.)

Toby, one of our tuxedos, had been hanging around on the other side of the fence supervising me talking to the new cat when he suddenly jumped over the fence. I started to scold him, warning him not to be mean to the new cat. Then it became clear why he jumped. A boy about 12-13 was chasing him, laughing. I gave the kid a cold stare. He sauntered off toward the playground maybe fifty yards away but turned to see if I was still watching him. I was, and thinking, "A--hole." He reached the playground where a couple of little girls were playing and got on a swing, which I thought was odd for a boy his age. He still swiveled his head to look at me. That's went I went in the house and told John, "I need a male presence out here." He immediately stopped what he was doing. "What happened?"

"There's a kid out here who was harassing Toby and now he's on the playground."

"What'd he do?"

"He chased Toby over the fence and laughed about it, then went on, but he's still looking at me."

We are part of the Community Cat Program and are known in the neighborhood for taking care of cats--a boy down the block still knocks on the door when he sees a gray cat, from when we were looking high and low for Sweet Pea two weeks ago--but are aware many people do not like cats and will harm them if they can get away with it. I feared this kid might be one of those.

By now we were at the back fence and I pointed out the boy still swinging on the swing set. We maintained cold stares to let him know we were watching him, taking note of what he looked like, etc.

Then he got off the swing and came toward us. We prepared for trouble--him shouting obscenities, making threats to us or the cats, even attacking us. If the day ended without violence I still foresaw keeping guard over the outdoor cats after school hours until cold weather drove the kids inside, making 100% certain all the doors are locked when we leave the house or go to bed, etc.

But when he reached us the boy said, "I'm sorry I scared your cat. I reached for her to pet her--all I wanted to do was pet her--and she jumped away." He said this all in a rush, out of breath and shaking. I stood behind John, grinning, so happy my fears were unfounded, and made sure the boy saw me smiling.

John smiled, too, and explained we're part of the community cat program and take the neighborhood ferals to be fixed, get them their shots, tipped, etc. "and any cats you see are probably part of our colony." I don't know if the boy heard him or not, he just looked relieved he was not in trouble! One of the girls from the swings had by now joined us, so now we knew why he was at the playground--he'd been sent by Mom to pick up his little sister. John talked reassuringly to them another minute or two and then shook the boy's hand.

Whew! It was nice to meet a polite young person, and a cat lover at that. If I see him again I'll be sure to wave and even introduce him to Toby, Sweet Pea, Iris, etc.

btw, Toby's full name is Tobermory, because he understands every word he hears just like in the story and could "speak our language with perfect correctness," if he so chose. (Couldn't they all?)

Saturday, October 10, 2015

An Evening with Joyce Carol Oates

I picked up a copy of NUVO at Georgetown Market several weeks ago and leafed through it looking for fall festivals and special events around town. “Oh, wow!” I yelled to no one in particular. “Joyce Carol Oates is going to speak at Butler!” The free event was part of Butler University’s Visiting Writers series—all you had to do was bring a donation of rice or pasta for Second Helpings.

I’m always nervous about making it to something I’ve been looking forward to. What if it’s raining too hard or the car breaks down on the way? Out come the bus schedules and a plan for such a contingency. What if I spill soup on my blouse? In that unlikely event, there are sweatshirts in the backseat of the car.

We made it to Clowes Hall with no emergencies and found terrific seats in the twelfth row smack in front of the lectern. People filed into the main hall—lots of students, older people. I surmised many of the latter were also involved in academia. The two men behind us heatedly discussed the shortage of teachers in Indiana and what to do about it.

Professor of English Jason Goldsmith introduced English Literature major and budding writer Maddi Rasor, who had the honor of introducing Ms. Oates, the author of 40-some novels and almost as many short story collections, not to mention novels under a couple of different names, numerous plays, essays and memoirs, and children’s and YA fiction. (I am thrilled Oates still writes short stories, my favorite reading.) Monday night she read from her latest memoir, The Lost Landscape: A Writer’s Coming of Age.

Oates is whipcord thin, taller than I expected, and spoke off the cuff very comfortably. She thanked Ms. Rasor for her gracious introduction and remarked it was “an achievement to be here,” joking about her longevity (she’s 77) and considering she is “always mildly anxious when traveling.” (I furiously scribbled down her impromptu comments—we were not allowed to record or photograph the presentation—and will reproduce them here as faithfully as possible.)

She confirmed she is the “innocent, shy-looking girl on the cover” of The Lost Landscape and noted that when editor Daniel Halpern invited her to write a memoir she was “self-conscious about writing about coming-of-age,” so she “basically just wrote a memoir.” She had a lot to say about memoirs: why do you remember “that weird thing, among all the other weird things that you’ve done” and noted “it’s hard to get into the memory of our actual child-self… Memory is discontinuous…” She wanted to write a book that would “address itself to the landscape of childhood… that is so much a part of our spiritual being.”

She grew up in a narrow area north of Buffalo and noted New York state is “this enormous place, in many ways a Midwestern state.” She called the book “a lament, a valentine to a vanishing way of life in small-town America.” Her father’s farm was “not very prosperous.” Her grandfather carried a jug of hard cider around, starting at breakfast, and made his own cigarettes.

Oates then read from the “Happy Chicken 1942-1944” chapter of her memoir, but first made a few comments. Her pet hen, Happy, was “handsome—like Donald Trump” and she made him an honorary boy: “Sexism begins right in the barnyard… there’s a patriarchal system right there in nature.”

The first characters—heroes—she drew were chickens and cats on hind legs standing like people at a cocktail party, not that she knew at the time what such a thing was. Happy would allow her to kiss him; “kissing the top of a cat’s head is not unlike kissing the top of a chicken’s head.” There was only one rooster in the coop—“the other males were of no use. Sorry.”

Oates told us she’s written two kinds of memoirs. The first is A Widow’s Story (2011). After her first husband died in February 2008 she kept a journal, “like a diary,” where “each day is the historical present, a record of those days.” It is “present tense, very accurate.” The second type of memoir “is recollected. You know the beginning and end of the story. It’s written many years later—it tends to be something in the past—it’s much more dreamlike.” The latter is the kind we’re likely to have read, she said, and remarked that “Mary Karr tried a lot of things before she hit on the right voice” (for The Liar’s Club, her 1995 best-selling memoir). Oates said, “We all have a story, a vivid memory of isolated things” and the memoirist must “create a probable context for isolated incidents.”

As she read from “Happy Chicken,” I closed my eyes—John told me he did, too—and the words carried us back to her hardscrabble yet wonderful childhood. She planned to read more but ran out of time after an hour. I would have been OK with spending the night there, listening.

She then invited questions from the audience. A young man asked, “What happened to Connie (the young heroine of “Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been?” forced to accompany a smooth-talking sociopath)?” and Oates confirmed “she is going to die… she’s a sacrificial figure.” (The enigmatic charmer has threatened to kill Connie’s family if she doesn’t come with him.) “She starts off egotistical and at the end is ready to accept her death.”

Next at the microphone was a woman who asked if Oates was concerned that “elements of story are lost in translation” to film. The young lady explained she took part in Hannah Fidell’s short film The Gathering Squall, based on the speaker’s short story. Oates assured her “the art of film is independent.” Elements “will be appropriated for the story.” She commented, “Filmmakers are so original and interesting” and asked questions about the film and wants to see it. (I have no doubt she was sincere. In line later, I overheard Maddi, the young lady who introduced Oates, telling friends “she’s really very shy” in person and would rather hear about you than talk about herself.)

Next up was a young lady who asked about stories based on actual events. Oates replied, “When most men are engaged in the work [of writing such a piece], they want it to be exemplary of the event itself” and cited “Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been?” and “Landfill” as examples of her own work where she writes “about the event, not the real people.” She is reminded of her childhood again: the chicken is pecking on your leg? She’s told, “Oh, it’s just a rooster.” Her grandmother answers her inquiries this way: “You’re foolish and naïve to ask these questions.” Oates noted, “We’re ethereal beings in a natural world. Out of that comes a lot of tragedy.”

As for structure? “You have to find a way of containing a story.” She admitted, “I spend a lot of time trying to figure out a way to tell a story.” She has 400 pages of notes for stories that are waiting for her to find the key. (John and I exchanged a look at this.) Through Happy Chicken, she created a “triangulated perspective” that allowed her to include past/present/future, child/parent/grandparent, young girl/teen/adult.

I was interested in her comments about finding the right way to tell a story—sure, this is a great idea for a plot, I tell myself, but what’s the best way to present it (thinking of my file cabinet bulging with folders)? Oates manages to find it. A few examples: “Do With Me What You Will” is all-dialogue. “Cousins” is told via letters. “The High School Sweetheart” is a murder confession in the form of an acceptance speech. None of these narrative takes are gimmicks—story comes first.

The next speaker asked about Blonde, Oates’ novel based on Marilyn Monroe. Why Marilyn Monroe? “Norma Jean Baker reminded me of my mother and a girl I knew,” she said. “I got the idea of a tragedy—an American girl turned into Marilyn Monroe who makes millions for other people.” Monroe certainly was not rich, or at least there was no ready cash, at the time of her death—Oates told us Monroe’s ex-husband Joe DiMaggio stepped up and paid her funeral expenses. “It’s the dark side of a glamorous blonde figure. She was an exploited person who tried so hard to be loved.”

The last questioner asked, “Do you still follow boxing?” Oates, who wrote On Boxing in 1987, said, “I don’t follow it as much as in the 80s. I was interested in the history of boxing. My father took me to Golden Glove events, where I was witness to experiences I had no name for. Boxing, for all its flaws, allows some… heroism and artistry. It is symbolic of the human spirit.” Mike Tyson, she said, “is a tragedy and a farce. Why does one have strength and heart and rise to a level, and not another?”

Professor Goldsmith then wrapped up the evening and we filed out to the impromptu bookstore displaying her many volumes. I finally chose 2014’s Lovely, Dark, Deep collection of short stories and we found places at the end of a long line for an autograph. Before we left the house I had grabbed Marriages and Infidelities at the last minute for her to sign, too, if possible.

Ms. Oates duly signed my book and looked up at me. “Are you a writer?” she asked. I nodded and said, “Of sorts.” She turned to Prof. Goldsmith and said, “You can tell when someone is a writer. There’s a look, don’t you think?” He agreed. As we turned to go Prof. Goldsmith saw Marriages and Infidelities (which I’ve always thought of as Marriages and Other Infidelities, for some reason) in my hand and said, “Would you like that signed, too?” “Oh, sure!” I said. “I’ve had this for forty years, I just grabbed it off the nightstand.” She signed that one, too, remarking that the front cover showing a gorgeous couple in a clinch was outdated. Then we left her to return to Princeton and her new kitten and we returned home to find a cat up a tree.

Is forty years too long to be reading a book? Probably, if that author is as prolific as Oates. Susan Neville’s Invention of Flight has also been on my nightstand almost that long, because she hasn’t published that much. When a writer is really good, you have to parcel his work out, like Mansfield. You can read her in one gulp and reread her whenever you like. But there’s nothing like your first discovery of a story. As much as you want to read it, you’re afraid to because you might read it too fast and miss something. I’ve promised myself to go slow with Lovely, Dark, Deep.

Tuesday, October 6, 2015

Don't write today

Don’t write today. It doesn’t matter. The world will keep turning on its axis. No one will be worse off because you didn’t scribble down some words today. No one needs what you’re working on, especially if it’s fiction.
Admit it. This is for you. Writing fiction is an egotistical act. You write for you. To try to satisfy some emotional need in yourself. You want this or else you wouldn’t be doing it. “This” meaning acknowledgement from family or friends that you’re a worthwhile human being after all, or kudos from peers, or to produce something approaching artistic merit. You can claim, “But I want to give something to the world!” Really? We’re in desperate need of another small-town amateur sleuth or big city meet-cute or zombie-riddled alien planet? At least try to elevate your story above genre. Put heart into it. Please.
I don’t encourage beginning writers. Because if they let a discouraging word from some asshole (me) stop them from even one writing session, they may as well give up right now. Writing is long-haul stuff. Like marriage. You stick it out through good days and bad. You write when you “don’t feel like it.” If you don’t, you really don’t want it bad enough.

So—don’t write for me, or your parents, or your kids, or anyone else. Do this for you.

You are, anyway.

Friday, September 18, 2015

10 ten-minute pick-me-ups

Don’t feel like writing? Or even getting off the couch? Here are ten simple ways to make yourself feel better:
1.       Wash your face, comb your hair, brush your teeth.
2.       Grin for 30 seconds. (I know, I know, but it works. Something about endorphins.)
3.       Write a note to somebody, especially a thank-you note.
4.       Tackle a minor chore you’ve been putting off like putting away those books stacking up beside your bed. And while you’re at it,
5.       Make your bed. Changing the linens is even better. You’ll anticipate all day how nice it will feel when you finally slip between the sheets.
6.       Jog in place for 10 minutes. No equipment necessary. Or walk to the corner mailbox and mail that thank-you note. Take a trash bag with you and
7.       Collect trash on your way.
8.       Write a love note to your S.O and leave it in her sock drawer. While you’re there, straighten up her sock drawer. IOW,
9.       Do somebody else’s chore besides your own.
10.   Count your blessings. Use your fingers. And toes. Make a fresh list every time.

What do you do to make yourself feel better?

Monday, September 7, 2015

10 scenarios: “I don’t know you”

At Arby’s today a grandmother was wrangling three children when the five-year-old started pouring his drink on the floor. She looked at him and said, “I don’t even know you.”
Classic instances of “I don’t know you”—the Klingons turning their backs on Worf, Peter denying Christ, a mob boss banishing an underling in a third-rate gangster movie—leapt to mind, then other scenarios suggested themselves. Some are made up:

·         Husband to wife of twenty years when she cuts in line to get Stone Cold Steve Austin’s autograph.
·         Teen to friend shop-lifting Pepto Bismol, of all things.
·         Bride-to-be to maid-of-honor stuffing $20 bills in a male stripper’s G-string.
·         Nephew to uncle who refuses to stand up for the National Anthem at a Braves game.
·         Husband to wife who took pole-dancing lessons in secret.
·         Clan chief exiling a hunter who hoarded meat.
·         Cheating wife to herself in her car mirror in a motel parking lot.
·         Mother to daughter who brings home a “B” in AP Chemistry.
·         Wife to husband after he insults an airline clerk for no reason.
·         Cult member to the parents who’ve come to take him home.
Have you ever been on either end of “I don’t know you”? What fictional situations can you conjure?

Monday, August 24, 2015

Ten random writing prompts

  • "But it doesn’t make any difference!” she cried. Couldn’t they understand that?
  • The cradle rocked to and fro under the waves, and in the sing-sang song of the sea, she slept.
  • Fickle Fiebleman fiddle-farted too long and frittered the day away.
  • What is so jejune as a day in Rare? Rare is that new resort here in Gorleston Beach devoted to the wee ones.
  • Who are you? Who are you? Who are you? screamed the voice in his head.
  • Percival didn’t care the new headmistress had a MBA and a PhD and a bunch of other letters after her name, or the second headmaster raised himself up from Tower Hamlets, or Nurse Hornsby spent two years in Ghana fighting some disease or other. Percival planned to eat them all.
  • “Go ahead,” the babysitter said. “Play in the street.”
  • Sandra gave Susan the cookie recipe all right, and even though Susan followed it to the letter (including the 1/4 plus 1/8 teaspoon salt) she could never get it to come out like Sandra’s, and it was only after Sandra died and Susan inherited her recipe file did she understand why. Bitch left out the cinnamon.
  • “Halt!” please keep running please keep running please keep running.
  • Glad we are for the Father, and glad we are for thee, glad we are for The Big Fellow, and an Ireland that’s free.


Sunday, April 12, 2015

April 13 Birthdays

Happy Festoy Nensktag! (Lipen Søerjehn) to:
1506 French Jesuit theologian and co-founder of the Society of Jesus Peter Faber
1519 Italian noblewoman Catherine de' Medici; queen consort of France
1570 English conspirator Guy Fawkes
1743 US President #3 Thomas Jefferson
1750 American historical painter John Trumbull
1769 English portrait painter and draftsman Sir Thomas Lawrence 
1772 American clockmaker and an innovator in mass production Eli Terry
1795 American publisher James Harper; co-founded Harper & Row
1816 English pianist, conductor and composer Sir William Benett (The May Queen)
1852 American businessman Frank Woolworth
1866 American baseball player Herman Long; despite holding the record for most career (17 years) errors, he is considered the best shortstop of his era
1866 American outlaw Butch Cassidy
1871 Mexican Modernist poet, physician and diplomat Enrique Gonzalez Martinez
1885 Hungarian Marxist philosopher, writer and literary critic Gyorgy Lukacs
1888 American inventor John Hays Hammond Jr.; developed radio remote control 
1892 Scottish physicist Sir Robert Watson-Watt; knighted for his role in the development of radar
1899 American architect and inventor of scrabble Alfred Mosher Butts
1906 Nobel Prize-winning Irish-born author, critic, and playwright Samuel Beckett (Waiting for Godot)
1909 Pulitzer Prize-winning American writer Eudora Welty (The Optimist's Daughter)
1922 English novelist John Braine (Room at the Top); one of the "Angry Young Men"
1939 Nobel Prize-winning Irish novelist Seamus Heaney (Death of a Naturalist)
1949 Anglo-American writer Christopher Hitchens (Hitch-22)

British actor Edward Fox (Ghandi, The Day of the Jackal) is 78 and actor Paul Sorvino (Goodfellas, Slow Dancing in the Big City) is 76.
Oscar-winning film composer Bill Conti (The Right Stuff) is 73. You can probably hum his best known work, the theme to Rocky ("Gonna Fly Now").
Actors Tony Dow (Leave It To Beaver) and Lyle Waggoner (The Carol Burnett Show, Wonder Woman) are 70.
Multiple Grammy-winning soul singer Al Green ("Let's Stay Together") is 69 and actor Ron Perlman (Hellboy, Sons of Anarchy) is 65.
Drummer Max Weinberg (E Street Band) and Grammy-winning R&B singer Peabo Bryson ("Beauty and the Beast," "A Whole New World") are 64.
Chess Grandmaster Garry Kasparov is 52 and actress Caroline Rhea (Sabrina, the Teenage Witch) is 51.
Actor Rickey Schroder (Silver Spoons) is 45 and actress Kelli Giddish (Law & Order: Special Victims Unit) is 35.
Actresses AllisonWilliams (Girls, Peter Pan Live!) and Kallie Flynn Childress (Sleepover) are 27.

Sunday, March 1, 2015

Celebrate Read Across America Day!

Read Across America Day is an annual celebration on March 2 that encourages people of all ages to pick up a book and read. It just so happens to coincide with the birthday of one of the world’s most beloved authors, Dr. Seuss.

You probably learned somewhere along the way that the real name of the author of such classics as The Cat in the Hat, How the Grinch Stole Christmas! and Green Eggs and Ham is Theodor Geisel. But you may not know:
1.   Geisel’s first children’s book, And To Think That I Saw It On Mulberry Street, was rejected over 20 times.

2.   He wrote an advertising campaign for a bug spray that became part of the popular culture: “Quick, Henry, the Flit!” spawned a song and was used as a punch line for comedians like Fred Allen and Jack Benny.

3.   He wrote the story bases for two Oscar-winning films: Design for Death (1947) and Gerald McBoing-Boing (1950). Two Grinch TV specials won Emmys.

4.   He added “Dr.” to his pen name because his father always wanted him to be a physician.

5.   He believed in luck. Geisel had decided to go home and burn Mulberry Street after so many rejections when he ran into an old Dartmouth classmate who was juvenile editor at Vanguard Press. He said, "If I had been walking down the other side of Madison Avenue, I'd be in the dry-cleaning business today.”

6.   When an editor at Houghton-Mifflin challenged Geisel to "bring back a book children can't put down,” Geisel, using 236 of the 250 words given to him, completed The Cat in the Hat.

7.   He won a special Pulitzer Prize in 1984 for his “contribution over nearly half a century to the education and enjoyment of America's children and their parents."

8.    He never had children of his own. When asked about this, he would say, "You have 'em; I'll entertain 'em."

9.   His books consistently outsell the majority of newly published children's books; his works have spawned eleven television specials, four feature films, a Broadway musical and four television series.

10.   Seuss, his mother's maiden name, is pronounced to rhyme with "voice." But Geisel didn’t mind the Anglicization because it evokes an association with Mother Goose.

You're never too old, too wacky, too wild, to pick up a book and read to a child.”

Sunday, February 15, 2015

Quotes from two wise men born February 16

You may recognize some of these:
From Pulitzer Prize-winning historian Henry Brooks Adams (1838-1918), member of the Adams political family:
  • Friends are born, not made.
  • Only on the edge of the grave can man conclude anything.
  • Thank God, I never was cheerful. I come from the happy stock of the Mathers, who, as you remember, passed sweet mornings reflecting on the goodness of God and the damnation of infants.
  • It is impossible to underrate human intelligence--beginning with one's own.
  • Philosophy: Unintelligible answers to insoluble problems.
  • No man means all he says, and yet very few say all they mean, for words are slippery and thought is viscous.
  • A friend in power is a friend lost.
  • The proper study of mankind is woman.
Although noted in his lifetime for his nine-volume History of the United States During the Administration of Thomas Jefferson, Adams received the Pulitzer for his posthumously published memoirs, The Education of Henry Adams. The Modern Library named this work the top English-language nonfiction book of the twentieth century.
From presidential advisor/ambassador George Kennan (1904-2005), one of the group of foreign policy elders known as “The Wise Men”:
  • The very concept of history implies the scholar and the reader. Without a generation of civilized people to study history, to preserve its records, to absorb its lessons and relate them to its own problems, history, too, would lose its meaning.
  • The best an American can look forward to is the lonely pleasure of one who stands at long last on a chilly and inhospitable mountaintop where few have been before, where few can follow and where few will consent to believe he has been.
  • Heroism is endurance for one moment more.

Tuesday, January 20, 2015

10 Quotes from Frederico Fellini, born January 20, 1920

• All art is autobiographical. The pearl is the oyster's autobiography.
• A created thing is never invented and it is never true: it is always and ever itself.
• Experience is what you get while looking for something else.
• The artist is the medium between his fantasies and the rest of the world.
• It's easier to be faithful to a restaurant than it is to a woman.
• Realism is a bad word. In a sense everything is realistic. I see no line between the imaginary and the real.
• A good opening and a good ending make for a good film provide they come close together.
• There is no end. There is no beginning. There is only the passion of life.
• God may not play dice but he enjoys a good round of Trivial Pursuit every now and again.
• You exist only in what you do.