Elizabeth Bishop: Life and the Memory of It

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University of California Press, 15 de mar de 1992 - 602 páginas
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Elizabeth Bishop dedicated her poetry to telling "what really happened." Yet what really happened in the life on one of the twentieth century's finest and most beloved American poets has eluded readers for years. In this first full biography, Brett Miller pieces together the compelling and painful story of Bishop's life and traces the writing of her brilliantly crafted poems.

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ELIZABETH BISHOP: Life and the Memory of It

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Nappy with the sympathy, solicitude, and slightly off-kilter admiration that the fans of Elizabeth Bishop (1911-79) are known for, Millier (American Literature/Middlebury College) delivers a long ... Ler resenha completa

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Conteúdo

THE SCREAM 1911193O
1
THE HIGHER TYPES 19301934
41
THE USA SCHOOL OF WRITING 19341935
61
EVERYTHING CONNECTED ONLY BY AND AND AND 19351936
86
PITY SUCH SORROW 1937
112
WELL WE HAVE COME THIS FAR 19381940
133
NORTH SOUTH 19411946
161
PLOUGHING THROUGH LIFE ALONE 19471949
186
AT WHAT COST IN NERVOUS ENERGY? 19611963
319
THERE IS NO RAILROAD NAMED DELIGHT 19641965
351
THE ART OF LOSING 19661967
374
A TOTALLY WASTED STRETCH 19681970
399
CRUSOE IN ENGLAND 19701971
432
HALF GROAN HALF ACCEPTANCE 1972
459
ON THE WAY BACK 19731976
480
NORTH HAVEN 19771979
527

THE INDRAWN YES 19491951
215
BRAZIL 19511952
236
A DELUXE NOVA SCOTIA 19521956
252
SOBRIETY GAYETY PATIENCE TOUGHNESS 19561960
285
NOTES
551
BIBLIOGRAPHY
573
INDEX
583
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Página 118 - LOVE UNKNOWN. DEAR friend, sit down, the tale is long and sad : And in my faintings I presume your love Will more comply, than help. A Lord I had, And have, of whom some grounds, which may improve, I hold for two lives, and both lives in me.
Página 536 - If you tasted it, it would first taste bitter, then briny, then surely burn your tongue. It is like what we imagine knowledge to be: dark, salt, clear, moving, utterly free...
Página 99 - But when the Man-Moth pays his rare, although occasional, visits to the surface, the moon looks rather different to him. He emerges from an opening under the edge of one of the sidewalks and nervously begins to scale the faces of buildings. He thinks the moon is a small hole at the top of the sky, proving the sky quite useless for protection.
Página 334 - The world is a mist. And then the world is minute and vast and clear. The tide is higher or lower. He couldn't tell you which. His beak is focussed; he is preoccupied, looking for something, something, something. Poor bird, he is obsessed! The millions of grains are black, white, tan, and gray, mixed with quartz grains, rose and amethyst.
Página 13 - It's time for tea now; but the child is watching the teakettle's small hard tears dance like mad on the hot black stove, the way the rain must dance on the house.
Página 143 - ... another spray of artificial roses. His mane and tail are straight from Chirico. He has a formal, melancholy soul. He feels her pink toes dangle toward his back along the little pole that pierces both her body and her soul and goes through his, and reappears below, under his belly, as a big tin key. He canters three steps, then he makes a bow, canters again, bows on one knee, canters, then clicks and stops, and looks at me. The dancer, by this time, has turned her back. He is the more intelligent...
Página 27 - Suddenly, from inside, came an oh! of pain - Aunt Consuelo's voice not very loud or long. I wasn't at all surprised; even then I knew she was a foolish, timid woman. I might have been embarrassed, but wasn't. What took me completely by surprise was that it was me: my voice, in my mouth.
Página 267 - She shivers and says she thinks the house feels chilly, and puts more wood in the stove. // was to be, says the Marvel Stove. / know what I know, says the almanac. With crayons the child draws a rigid house and a winding pathway. Then the child puts in a man with buttons like tears and shows it proudly to the grandmother.
Página 274 - But surely it would have been a pity not to have seen the trees along this road, really exaggerated in their beauty, not to have seen them gesturing like noble pantomimists, robed in pink. — Not to have had to stop for gas and heard the sad, two-noted, wooden tune of disparate wooden dogs carelessly clacking over a grease-stained filling-station floor.
Página 119 - I dreamed that dead, and meditating, I lay upon a grave, or bed, (at least, some cold and close-built bower). In the cold heart, its final thought stood frozen, drawn immense and clear, stiff and idle as I was there; and we remained unchanged together for a year, a minute, an hour.

Referências a este livro

Literature and Gender
Lizbeth Goodman
Visualização parcial - 1996
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Sobre o autor (1992)

Brett C. Millier is Associate Professor of American Literature and Civilization at Middlebury College in Vermont.

Informações bibliográficas