Evelyn Waugh saw combat as a major with British commando units in North Africa, Crete, and Yugoslavia.
The Medieval poet Probus, whom Walafrid Strabo deemed superior to Virgil or Horace or Ovid — and whom no one any longer knows anything whatsoever about.
Paganini’s legendary showmanship. Which included sometimes deliberately breaking a string midway through a performance — and going on with only the remaining three.
Wallpaper, George Steiner dismissed much of Jackson Pollock as.
Extremely expensive wallpaper, Kenneth Rexroth made it.
Someone once asked Caruso if he considered himself the world’s greatest tenor.
Not unless John McCormack has suddenly become a baritone, Caruso said.
Why Diogenes had been noticed begging alms from a statue, a citizen wished to know.
To get into practice at being ignored, Diogenes explained.
The so-called Wicked Bible. Dated London 1632.
In which the word not was omitted in the seventh commandment.
Samuel Johnson’s compulsive inability to stroll past a picket fence without superstitiously touching each separate picket as he went.
Remembering that in the Odyssey Odysseus himself is not first seen until Book V.
And then is seen weeping.
Rudolph Valentino was dead at thirty-one.
Mithridates, he died old.
If you think you understand it, that only shows you don’t know the first thing about it.
Said Niels Bohr re quantum mechanics.
In an era when singers frequently embellished music to their own taste, Rossini once complimented Adelina Patti on an aria from The Barber of Seville — and then asked her who the composer was.
Claude Lorrain’s Coast View with Acis and Galatea, which Dostoievsky once saw in Dresden and writes in A Raw Youth of having dreamed about.
And writes in The Possessed of having dreamed about.
And writes in The Dream of a Ridiculous Man of having dreamed about.
Emily Dickinson’s refusal to sit for a photographer.
Henrik Ibsen was virtually never known to take off his hat without immediately combing his hair — having even glued a small mirror inside the hat to make use of when he did so.
September 23, 1835, Vincenzo Bellini died on.
April 8, 1848, Gaetano Donizetti died on.
There was no memorial of any sort for Byron in Westminster Abbey until 1969.
Still always slightly surprised to recall — that John McCormack died an American citizen.
The so-called anarchist artist who in 1988 smeared a large X in his own blood on a wall in the Museum of Modern Art — and in the process splattered an adjacent Picasso.
I can’t understand these chaps who go round American universities explaining how they write poems; it’s like going round explaining how you sleep with your wife.
Quoth Philip Larkin.
The sound of Bix Beiderbecke’s cornet:
Like a girl saying yes, Eddie Condon said.
The sound of Paul Desmond’s alto saxophone:
Like a dry martini, being what Desmond himself said he wanted.
Exactly the right tone of thought and feeling to appeal to grocers.
Leslie Stephen credited Dickens with.
Napoleon was five feet six inches tall.
A dozen or fifteen years before much of the nudity in Michelangelo’s Last Judgment would be concealed by papal order, a ranking Vatican cardinal voiced the first complaint about same.
And shortly discovered his own portrait on the wall — in hell.
As almost happened similarly to a prior in Milan after his complaints about Leonardo’s apparent desultoriness in work on The Last Supper — complaints that abruptly ceased at Leonardo’s hint regarding who might become the model for Judas.
Kindly see me safe up. As for coming down I shall shift for myself.
Said Sir Thomas More — being led to the gallows.
In Robert Schumann’s diary, after a first meeting with Berlioz:
There is something very pleasant about his laugh.
Thou shalt commit adultery.
The brains of a ram, Shaw attributed to Sophocles.
Of a third-rate village policeman — to Brahms.
Poor England, when such a despicable abortion is named genius.
Said Thomas Carlyle of Charles Lamb.
Anybody can be nobody.
Said Eugene V. Debs.
Novelist’s personal genre. For all its seeming fragmentation, nonetheless obstinately cross-referential and of cryptic interconnective syntax.
Wondering why one is surprised to realize that Thoreau was dead at forty-five.
A lament of Schopenhauer’s:
Over how frequently the mere purchase of a book is mistaken for the appropriation of its contents.
Two pages of The Mill on the Floss are enough to start me crying.
Said Proust.
Sour of speech, averse to laughter, unable to be merry even over the wine, but what he writes is full of honey and the Sirens.
Says a line of uncertain attribution re Euripides.
Lope de Vega had at least three illegitimate children.
Gustav Klimt may have had as many as fourteen.
Though the courts recognized only four, in regard to his estate.
Utterly crazy about women.
Suidas says of Menander.
Looking at them in society, one fancies there’s something in them, but there’s nothing, nothing, nothing. No, don’t marry, my dear fellow, don’t marry.
Repulsive, an early New York Times review called Degas.
Pigs at the pastry cart.
John Updike called critics.
Says a 1796 London jestbook:
Shakespear seeing Ben Jonson in a necessary-house, with a book in his hand reading it very attentively, said he was sorry his memory was so bad, that he could not sh-te without a Book.
Dürer’s hausfrau wife.
Whom he on occasion remanded to eat with their maid.
Lenin played tennis.
The sign in the window says Pants Pressed Here. But when you bring in your pants, you discover that it is the sign that is for sale.
Being Kierkegaard — on the typical obscurity of what normally passes for philosophy.
The first use of the phrase stream of consciousness.
In a review by May Sinclair of Dorothy Richardson’s Pointed Roofs — in April 1918.
The remedies of all our diseases will be discovered after we are dead.
Assumed John Stuart Mill.
Charlotte has been writing a book, and it is much better than likely.