Posts tagged 1899.

Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta. She was Lo, plain Lo, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one sock. She was Lola in slacks. She was Dolly at school. She was Dolores on the dotted line. But in my arms she was always Lolita.

April 22, 1899: Vladimir Nabokov is born.

Vladimir Nabokov was born in Saint Petersburg and wrote many of his novels (including his earliest nine) in Russian, but his most famous work, the controversial classic Lolitawas written in English. Nabokov was born to an aristocratic Russian statesman (killed in 1922 by monarchist assassins) and his wife; the Nabokovs enjoyed a cushy and privileged lifestyle in St. Petersburg until 1919, when they were forced into exile in Western Europe. There, Nabokov studied at Cambridge, wrote short stories and poetry under a pseudonym, and composed his first major work in English - The Real Life of Sebastian Knight, shortly before he and his family (including his Jewish wife, Vera Nabokov née Slonim) fled to the United States from France in 1940 with the onset of the German invasion of France.

In the U.S., Nabokov worked at a number of institutions (New York’s Museum of Natural History, Stanford, Wellesley, Harvard, and Cornell) teaching in a number of different fields (entomology, creative writing, comparative literature, Russian, and Russian and European literature). In addition to his fiction writing, Nabokov was also an accomplished literary critic, chess problemist, and entomologist - in fact, he wrote his most famous novel while studying butterflies in the Rocky Mountains. Lolita and Pale Fire (1962) were ranked fourth and fifty-third on the Modern Library’s 100 Best Novels List, respectively. 

Pond in the Morning (1899) - Gustav Klimt

August 13, 1899: Alfred Hitchcock is born.

Give them pleasure - the same pleasure they have when they wake up from a nightmare.

July 21, 1899: Ernest Hemingway is born.

There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.

After writing a story I was always empty and both sad and happy, as though I had made love.

Write drunk; edit sober.

There is no friend as loyal as a book.

All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.

All my life I’ve looked at words as though I were seeing them for the first time.

In order to write about life first you must live it.

Poor Faulkner. Does he really think big emotions come from big words? He thinks I don’t know the ten-dollar words. I know them all right. But there are older and simpler and better words, and those are the ones I use.

Happy birthday, Fred Astaire! (May 9, 1899 - June 22, 1987)

The history of dance on film begins with Astaire.