Henry David Thoreau, the American poet, essayist and naturalist, once wrote a book titled, A Week on the Ground and Merrimack Rivers that did not sell many copies out of the 1000 printed. Thoreau bought the 706 unsold copies and recorded the transaction in his personal journal: “I have now a library of nearly nine hundred volumes, over seven hundred of which I wrote myself.”
Historian Arthur Schlesinger, Jr. stopped the author, Liz Carpenter and said: “Liz, I liked your book. Who wrote it for you?”
“I am glad you liked it, Arthur,” she countered: “Who read it to you?”
This is reproduced from The Star, Johannesburg: The would-be author, Kenneth Phiri appealed to Zimbabwe’s High Court not to send him to prison because he needed time to complete his book. But the presiding judge sent him to prison for four-and-a-half years for robbery and impersonating a police officer. “You will have to complete writing this book in prison,” the judge told him.
The book’s title: Crime Does Not Pay.
Sir Arthur C. Clarke and Isaac Asimov, both internationally famous science fiction writers, had a mock-hate relationship. When a plane crashed and many passengers survived, it turned out that one of the survivors had kept calm during the perilous attempts to land by reading a Clarke novel. This was reported in a news dispatch. Clark made numerous copies of the article and sent one to Asimov and at the bottom wrote: “What a pity, he didn’t read one of your novels. He would have slept through the whole wretched ordeal.”
“On the contrary,” Asimov wrote back, “the reason he was reading your novel was that if the plane did crash, the death would come as a blessed relief.”
Once G.K. Chesterton, who was very corpulent, met George Bernard Shaw, who was very lean, on the street and teased him: “Shaw, seeing you one would think that there was a famine in England.”
Shaw’s retort was swift: “And looking at you, Chesterton, one would know the cause of it.”
The American writer, Dorothy Parker and the playwright, Clare Booth Luce approached a doorway at the same time. Luce stepped aside saying, “Age before beauty.” Parker swept through the door, tartly retorting, “Pearl before swine.”
Chesterton was reputed to be a bit absent-minded. Once on a trip, he wired his wife:
AM IN MARKET HARBOROUGH STOP
WHERE OUGHT I TO BE.
Mrs. Chesterton replied:
HOME.
Browsing through a second-hand bookstall, Shaw came across a volume of his own plays that he had presented to a friend inscribed in his own hand. Buying the book, Shaw wrote under the inscription: “With renewed compliments, G.B.S.”, and sent it back to the early recipient.
A famous beauty once told Shaw that if he married her, their children will have his brains and her beauty.
“No,” countered Shaw, “what happens if they have your brains and my beauty?”
A writer was bragging about his ancestors. “My father was the lord of a manor, my grandfather was a general, my great-grandfather was…”
Shaw cut him short. “Enough. If you keep on tracing your ancestry backwards, you will have to end with the monkey.”
When Cornelia Otis Skinner, the great actress, opened in a revival of Shaw’s Candida, he cabled:
EXCELLENT GREATEST!
Miss Skinner, overwhelmed, cabled back:
UNDESERVING SUCH PRAISE.
Shaw replied:
I MEANT THE PLAY.
Miss Skinner bristled and wired back:
SO DID I.
Shaw was not the one to stand any suggestion about his work. A theatrical company touring New Zealand cabled him:
TRAIN SCHEDULES MAKE IT ESSENTIAL
WE CUT LENGTH PERFORMANCE STOP
CAN WE HAVE PERMISSION TO CUT
EPILOGUE FROM ST JOAN
Shaw’s pithy reply:
YOU HAVE MY PERMISSION TO
CUT EPILOGUE PROVIDING
YOU PERFORM IT ON TRAIN!
On a narrow country bridge coming from the opposite side, Shaw met another author who hated him. “I never give way to a scoundrel,” said the other one. “But I always do,” said Shaw and stepped aside to let him pass.
Shaw commenting on the suffragettes remarked, “Women cried: ‘we will not be dictated to’ and proceeded to become stenographers.”
Shaw used to pay his monthly grocer’s bill by cheque. The grocer was a smart guy and instead of encashing it, he would frame it and put it on display. If the cheque was for £5, the note under the display would say: “Cheque signed by George Bernard Shaw, £10.” Sure enough, some passerby would notice it and buy it.
It is not known whether Shaw ever found this out.
Charles Lamb, the author of Tales From Shakespeare, was a notorious late comer to office. His boss chided him one day: “Mr. Lamb, you come to the office late everyday.”
Lamb replied, “But I make it up by going early.”
And that was that.
British author, Noel Coward once encountered American novelist Edna Ferber, who was wearing a tailored suit. “You look almost like a man,” observed Coward.
“So do you,” retorted Ferber.
There was no love lost between the novelist William Faulkner and Ernest Hemingway. Faulkner, in a fit of pique, once described Hemingway: “He has never been known to use a word that might send a reader to the dictionary.”
The famous banker, Henri de Rothschild told the author, Tristan Bernard: “People tell me you are very witty, so please make me laugh.”
Bernard replied: “People tell me you’re very rich, so please lend me 100,000 francs.”
The famous French author, Victor Hugo wanted to know from his publisher how his recently published novel, Les Misérables was selling, and reportedly sent him a simple enquiry which read:
“?”
And received the expressive reply:
“!”.
(This is recognized by The Guinness Book of World Records as the shortest correspondence.)
Mark Twain in his autobiography wrote a scathing tirade about a publisher, who had cheated him. But he ended with a note of forgiveness: “He’s been dead for a quarter of a century now. I have only compassion for him and if I could send him a fan, I would.”
At the promotional function of his book, an author started showing some fatigue as he doggedly autographed his latest book. The publisher’s agent leaned over and whispered: “Keep going. Remember, they cannot return signed books.” It is not surprising that the strength of the author revived.
After sending the manuscript of his latest book, Travels With My Aunt, to his American publishers, novelist Graham Greene received the following cable: “Terrific book, but will need to change the title.”
“No need to change the title,” responded Greene. “Easier to change publishers.” And he did just that.
Benjamin Disraeli, the 9th century British statesman and twice prime minister, quipped that “When I want to read a novel, I write one.”
Robert Benchley, American humourist, once remarked: “It took me fifteen years to discover that I had no talent for writing, but I could not give up because by that time, I was too famous.”
Someone asked the French novelist, Guy de Maupassant why he wrote stories only about fallen women.
“A virtuous woman is of no interest to anybody,” was his obvious reply.
Ernest Hemingway, Nobel Prize-winning American novelist, was often short of ready cash but was very generous. A story is told about him that when short of funds, he would borrow 100 francs from the barmen at the Ritz, give it to them as a tip and promise to pay them back, the next week.
British author, Arnold Bennett was autographing copies of his books at a literary function. One avid fan of his had three first editions, but thought it impolite to get all the three signed by Bennett at one time. He presented the first one and rejoined the queue, trusting that the author won’t remember, him. He did this thrice. At the last presentation, without a trace of a smile, Bennett wrote, “To…, who is fast becoming an old friend.”
This was the comment of the novelist Henri Miller on a highly complimentary letter about one of his books: “I particularly prize your letter because it’s a kind of letter I would have written myself, had I not been the author of the book.”
American humourist Art Linkletter is probably the author of this profound observation: But for marriage, husbands and wives would have to fight with strangers.
At last,” announced a budding author with grim satisfaction, “I have written something that any magazine will be glad to accept.”
“Good!” exclaimed his friend. “What is it?”
“A cheque for a year’s subscription,” was the response.
The noted social scientist, Bibhuti Sengupta was offloaded at Delhi from a fight to Mumbai as a cabinet minister had to be accommodated. When the minister reached the venue of the function, he was told that that the author of the book which he was to have released could not reach Mumbai as he was offloaded at Delhi.
The author was Professor Sengupta.
The British M.P., Beesie Braddock once shouted at Churchill during a dinner party: “Mr. Churchill, you are drunk!”
Not one to take an insult lying down, Churchill shouted back: “And madam, you are ugly.” Adding in the same breath, “But in the morning, I shall be sober.”
Another man with pretensions of being a poet, sent his work to a publisher and pompously demanded an immediate reply, adding that “I have other irons in the fre.”
The rejection slip bore this reply: “Remove the irons and insert the poems.”
Churchill and Shaw were always at daggers drawn, though in a friendly way. Shaw invited Churchill to the opening night of one of his plays, sending two tickets, “one for yourself and one for a friend—if you have any.” Churchill could not attend but asked if he could have tickets for the second night performance, “if there is one.”
This is from a college in the Chambal belt.
“What kind of writing pays the best?”
“A ransom note.”
A cabinet minister in the room next to Churchill’s was shouting into the phone. Annoyed, he asked an aide to tell the minister to lower his voice. The aide came back and told, “He is talking to Washington.”
“Then ask him to use the phone,” was Churchill’s caustic comment.
What is a writer’s cramp called? A: Authoritis
Proud poet: My book of poems has been published recently.
Friend: Did you sell any?
Poet: Yes, my clothes, watch and the gold chain.
One young, aspiring author boasted, “I can live very well on what I write.”
“Really,” asked another in their creative writing class: “What do you write?”
“Begging letters to my father.”