Happy Birthday to a couple of my very favorite writers!
Dorothy Parker was born on this day in 1893, and while she is most remembered for her days with the Round Table in New York, she spent a number of years in Hollywood as a screenwriter (IMDB). She passed away in 1967.
I’m never going to accomplish anything; that’s perfectly clear to me. I’m never going to be famous. My name will never be writ large on the roster of Those Who Do Things. I don’t do anything. Not one single thing. I used to bite my nails, but I don’t even do that any more.
And yes, you might as well live.
Ray Bradbury, also born on 8/22, but in 1920. (Funny to think of Mrs Parker at 27 when he was born, being fired by Vanity Fair for offending people.) A while back I wrote about Ray:
[He] is the ghost in the machine. He finds the soul in the rocket, traces the life in the Martian colony, points out the demons lurking in the fires of a burning book.
Always one to tweak the nose of too-serious folks, Ray has recently been talking about what Fahrenheit 451 really means. Some people have gotten a little pissy about it, which says more about them than Bradbury. And that’s kind of the point.
Living nearly a century and writing some of the best literature in the world gives you a smidgen of latitude. ;)
