Author! Author!
Message for ya, message for ya!
Okay.
In response to one overwhelming demand, me and Buy Kurious have come up with a follow-up Fall poll to the musical influences one.
But, this time, we need to know who you LOVE.
Or, if you're like me, just the ones who you've actually heard of.
These are all authors that MES has cited, down the years.
Pick three favourites.

PS Feel free to pick knits, add on etc, but bear in mind me and Buy Kurious spent the best part of our Friday night putting this together, when we, quite frankly, had nothing better to do. So, be nice.

PPS Ginsberg, Serling, Lowry. I thought you'd never ask...

:applaud:

Yes, any serious dissenters will be slapped around the chops with a slippery fish. :devil2:

...erm...I spent so long thinking about which authors to put in that I haven't thought about which ones to vote for...
Give me a sec.

* eyes go dead, stares vacantly at screen. Dribbles *

OMG! This is so difficult,
How did you choose three so quickly!?

Mankiewicz
Marlowe
Serling

No, wait!

I voted for Gogol my personal favorite who, it has been argued, wrote the greatest novel - Dead Souls, Part I; greatest short story, The Overcoat; and among the greatest of plays - The Government Inspector.
I also am a big fan of Joyce.
Sorry to see no Corso or Kerouac who I rate above Ginsberg but Ginzy was a giant. Actually, almost all the writers are really well regarded except that I dissent on Singer being a major writer.

Thanks for the work you two! :thumbsup:

Vonnegut, Ballard and Bukowski are in my top 5 favourites.

Luke Reinhardt - is he the bloke who wrote The Diceman? I got half way through it and said to myself "Heads I plough on with this crap, Tails I fuck it off right now" Tails, luckily.

Yes, that's the one; I haven't read Dice Man. I wonder if MES was a fan of the writing or just the premise.
The idea itself is fascinating and chimes a little with MES' ideas.....yes, methinks it do!

Not only have I not read anything by Singer, I can't even think of the titles of any of his books.
If I was to pick just one poet from the list, it would have to be Wilfred Owen....

Glad MES didn't fall into the Kafka and Dostoyessky trap....I think his song writing is very Beckett-like: He discards most, if not all, of the autobiographical and site specific material in the first draft and leaves only the universal. Both Smith & Beckett have a spareness about their work.
Sorry there was no Checkov

MES has better gags than Beckett, though! :P
I've read none of his work and only know stuff through what other writers have said about him, but I was thinking similarities between MES and Brecht (not politically, stylistically)???? :unsure:

Most unpopular poll EVER!
Note to self: Should have talked about Euro 2008... :banghead:

If you look a little closer I think you,ll find MES had only condemnation for the Rhineherdt book,-Diceman.
[ The poison Dice---no time for small moralists]
The book itself takes the idea of listing options, as to what to do in life, but the options are progressively more evil.
It could be taken as a very ironic book, a commentary on a particular way of life, 'Existentialism' for example, but thats not the impression of the guy who wrote it that I got.
John Le Carre and Bukowski, worth a mention, and of course Malcolm Lowry,s 'Aquamarine'. better than under the volcano.

:lol:

It's the Pseud-fear!

Walt Whitman = apart from Ted Hughes, the worst poet EVER!
Ballard & Burroughs are FASCISTS and MYSOGINISTS!
Christopher Marlowe WAS Shakespeare!
Mailer was a FINK! :devil2:

Don't knock Under The Volcano.
I'm never spending that much of my life reading a book again.
MES is Firmin.
Non?

:applaud:

I'm listening to Dice Man now.... :o

"Firmin"???? :huh:

Yup.
Geoffrey Firmin.
Some drunken loser who had all his dreams destroyed.

:o :o :o :o :o :o

:beer: :whistle: :cry2:

:huh:

Back on-topic:

Oh. Must we?
I always thought Bill Burroughs was a reactionary cnut.
Discuss.

'Wild Boys' is a bit pervy. It's the literary equivalent of PC-based "obscene-images".... :o

Walt Whitman = apart from Ted Hughes, the worst poet EVER! :applaud:
Ballard & Burroughs are FASCISTS and MYSOGINISTS!You got that right!!!
Christopher Marlowe WAS Shakespeare!I'm still convinced that Shakespeare was Shakespeare but am willing to be persuaded otherwise. At least Willy wasn't a spy like Marlowe.

Beckett is really funny at times:[1] In WATT he described a very old man and a very old woman trying to realize coitus and describes the man as completely impotent and the man doubles his member in half and tries insertion in that manner and says, "Oh for the unction of a little mucous membrane".
[2]He also describes the homeless Watt's attempt to keep warm and always saves the Times Literally Supplement for the inside back of his trousers because "even the densest farts would not penetrate it. A lot of intentional humor in Beckett unlike the fact that you laugh AT Norman Mailer and not with him, mostly.

Don't look at this being an unpopular poll; like the manager of Spinal Tap, just look at it as your being more selcective with your audience :lol:

I haven't posted this fact at this thread yet:
The great Brazilian Garrincha played 50 games for his national team. Of these 50 games, Brazil won 49.

:lol: :lol:

I knew we'd missed something out! :rolleyes:

Ah the first acknowledgement :) Now I can exhale. I have four of the Brazilian games from the 1962 World Cup on DVD. Pele was hurt and in the England game, Pele's replacement, Amarildo, was hurt and played at 75% speed[at most][absolutely NO subs allowed back then for any reason] and Garrincha assumed the dual role of set-up man and scorer: the next two games he got two goals and two assists in each game. He was probably the greatest dribbler ever plus could drive the ball with cannon-like speed and accuracy.

PS You have football threads to talk about football!

Kit marlowe didnt write anything, he was a spy and probably commisioned some poor hack to write "T arkus" (forget the name).
And sheakspeare was never gay.
Though some of his best friends etc etc,

Garrincha's playing inspired great literature :D
[PS - Don't much care for the crowd that hangs out at such places and I say that as a disappointed person who was counting on a Guinness scholarship upon my retirement. I wanted a Guinness fellowship to travel to Europe and become an intern in the art of football hooliganism but my application was rejected. I've been put off the rank and file football fan ever since. :) Still, I did collect a lot of Made-in-England steel-toed Doc Martens that I've gotten much use from.]

Dick, Vonnegut, and A Machen because he is safe and from the port:when did MES mention my fave rave Kurt?

NME. Portrait Of The Artist As A Consumer. 15 August 1981.
The Sirens Of Titan.
Next!

"Shakespeare" took it up the Gary Glitter as did Marlowe, who wrote the sonnets,
Shakespeare, the married-dunderhead died with in a house than contained no books! That's coz he couldn't read...
Next!

I'm not sure they had books then, BK, just the occasional folio, could be wrong...

Ballard a fascist? Blimey, first time I've heard him accused of that, perhaps someone could expand?

Gogol - Higgins - Poe


Gogol - see Duckpin's response above

Higgins - Capturing Boston perfectly - captures dialogue like no one else - check out Friends of Eddie Coyle

Edgar Alan Poe -

here's The Raven

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door-
Only this, and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;- vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow- sorrow for the lost Lenore-
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore-
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me- filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door-
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;-
This it is, and nothing more."


Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you"- here I opened wide the door;-
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"-
Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice:
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore-
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;-
'Tis the wind and nothing more."



Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed
he;But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door-
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door-
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore-
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning- little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door-
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered- not a feather then he fluttered-
Till I scarcely more than muttered, "other friends have flown before-
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said, "Nevermore."



Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore-
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of 'Never- nevermore'."

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore-
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!



Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee- by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite- respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."



"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!- prophet still, if bird or devil!-
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted-
On this home by horror haunted- tell me truly, I implore-
Is there- is there balm in Gilead?- tell me- tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."


"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil- prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us- by that God we both adore-
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore-
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend," I shrieked, upstarting-
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!- quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted- nevermore!

Yeah. I don't think Poe has ever received the plaudits he's due...great with words; cross genre; innovator. [laid to rest in my hometown]

Sorry, Fritter (and Jim, obviously); that was my lame - and completely inaccurate - attempt at provoking discussion.
I'm slapping myself around the face as I type this...

...but I'm not using my hands! ^_^ :rollover: B)

Oh, but I think you'll find they did!

Not just an absence of books in Stratford Shakspere's Will, but no cultural objects of any kind, no paintings, musical instruments, and most importantly no manuscripts or plays.
His daughters were illiterate!

Mmmmmm, Christopher Marlowe, hunted for his affiliation with "The School of Night", saved by his lover Thomas Walsingham, they fake his death and send him into exile in Italy, where he writes the plays! OMG, it's like sooooo romantic, it just has to be true! :wub:

You and your shape changing lizard people!

LOOK INTO MY MULLET, YOU WILL BELIEVE ME! :devil2: