My Favourite Author Essay

My Favourite Author Essay-79
I’m talking Faulkner, Hemingway, Salinger, Baldwin — the list goes on.Partly my afore-referenced time studying English Lit is to blame for this; I had a number of “older,” more classic texts sort of crammed down my throat, thus not allowing for the more genuine, blooming realization of greatness and impact that resulted from my reading — on my own — the texts below.

I’m talking Faulkner, Hemingway, Salinger, Baldwin — the list goes on.Partly my afore-referenced time studying English Lit is to blame for this; I had a number of “older,” more classic texts sort of crammed down my throat, thus not allowing for the more genuine, blooming realization of greatness and impact that resulted from my reading — on my own — the texts below.

Good, memorable writing grows from an understanding of what exactly makes writing good, and memorable.

Maybe it’s just the English major in me, but I get a sort of buzz from doing this; I could talk books all day.

He wanted, he had always wantedto be a writer and in the evening after his tea, he wrote and read. He never regretted the five years he had spent at thehospital.

In 1897 he wrote a novel called "Liza of Lambeth", sent itto a publisher and it was accepted. So William Somerset Maugham decided to abandon hismedical profession and he did it with relif. He learned the terrible difficulties ofmaking a living by writing. They taught him pretty well all he knew about humannature.

But sort of omnipresent beneath the more singular punctuations of racism and indecency that Pecola experiences is a more fundamental human pain: That of feeling perennially and hopelessly inadequate.

That of feeling beholden to satisfying the elusive expectations of someone or something that is entirely separate from yourself and your radius of control.

The novel "The moon and sixpence" (1919) is based on thelife of the artist Paul Gauguin was an immediate success.

Maughamwent to Tahiti and lived in Gauguin's hut while writing the book.

But, it struck me when reading that the pain of Pecola, for example, had been derived from reserves of pain and knowledge held by the author that I could at the very least recognize and respect as genuine.

In fact, Morrison’s prose in “You looked at them and wondered why they were so ugly; you looked closely and could not find the source.

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