MANY qualities which would be regarded as censurable if possessed by ordinary men and women are often regarded with a respect that is tinctured with admiration when they are possessed by persons of genius.
There is scarcely an author or musician of note who has not been distinguished by some foible that has excited the amusement of his friends. In many instances these foibles afford an index to the character of their victim. Some are natural, while others would seem to be the result of some inexplicable affectation. Viewed in any light, however, all are interesting.
Keats liked red pepper on his toast.
Sardou imagines he has a perpetual cold.
Dickens was fond of wearing flashy jewelry.
Joaquin Miller nailed all his chairs to the wall.
Ernest Renan wore his finger nails abnormally long.
Walter Savage Landor threw the dishes around to relieve his mind.
Edgar Allan Poe slept with his cat. He was inordinately proud of his feet.
Daudet wore his eye-glasses when asleep. He did his best work when hungry.
Victor Hugo spoke little; his remarks usually were made in the form of questions.
Thackeray used to lift his hat whenever he passed the house in which he wrote Vanity Fair.
Thomas Wentworth Higginson possesses a singular power over wild birds, and can easily tame them.
Alexandre Dumas, the younger, bought a new painting every time he had a new book published.
Edmund Clarence Stedman has his favorite cat sit in a high chair at the table every day at dinner.
Robert Louis Stevenson's favorite recreation was playing the flute, in order, as he said, to tune up his ideas.
Robert Browning could not sit still. With the constant shuffling of his feet holes were worn in the carpet.
Longfellow enjoyed walking only at sunrise or sunset, and he said his sublimest moods came upon him at these times.
Washington Irving never mentioned the name of his fiancee after her death, and If anybody else did so, he immediately left the room.
Hawthorne always washed his hands before reading a letter from his wife. He delighted in poring over old advertisements in the newspaper files.
Thomas Babington Macaulay kept his closets crammed with elaborately embroidered waistcoats, and the more gaudy they were, the better he liked them.
Disraeli wore corsets. The older he grew, the greater became his desire to dress like a young man. He had a pen stuck behind each ear when writing.
F. Marion Crawford carries his own stationery, pen and ink, and never writes with any other. He has written every word of every novel with the same penholder.
Bjornson kept his pockets full of the seeds of trees, scattering handfuls broadcast in his daily walks. He even tried to persuade his associates to do the same.
Darwin had no respect for books as books, and would cut a big volume in two, for convenience in handling, or he would tear out the leaves he required for reference.
Zola would pass whole weeks in the belief that he was an idiot. While in this state he wrote more than at any other time. He would never accept an invitation to dinner.
Oliver Wendell Holmes used to carry a horse-chestnut in one pocket and a potato in another to ward off rheumatism. He had a great fondness for trees, and always sat under one when he could.
Voltaire, as a preliminary to his day's work, would sharpen an even dozen lead pencils. He would untie and retie his stock whenever an idea concerning his work particularly pleased him.
Count Tolstoi goes barefoot and hatless the year round. He is fond of French perfumes, and keeps his linen scented with sachet powder. There is always a flower on his desk as he writes. Although very rich, he wears the cheapest clothes he can buy.
A. Conan Doyle, even in the coldest weather, never wears an overcoat. When he gives an afternoon lecture he removes his vest, and buttons his Prince Albert coat close to his body. He is a golf enthusiast and spends all the time possible on the links.
Bret Harte, when the inspiration was on him, would hire a cab for the night, and drive without stopping through the darkness until the struggle for ideas was over, and he grew calm enough to write. Nothing pleased him more than to be taken for an Englishman.
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