Literary Birthdays – September 6 – 12

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September 6

Robyn Davidson Robyn Davidson (born September 6, 1950) – Australian “life” writer – Tracks (1979)

Read Tom M. Wilson’s take on Davidson and Tracks in his
September 2008 blog post (scroll down)

Christopher Brookmyre (born September 6, 1968) – Scottish novelist – Pandaemonium (2009)

Read a short bio of Christopher Brookmyre here:

September 7

(Janet) Taylor Caldwell (born September 7, 1900) – British-American novelist – Captains and the Kings

September 8

Michael Frayn (born September 8, 1933) – U.K. playwright, novelist, nonfiction writer – Copenhagen

September 9

Leo Tolstoy (born September 9, 1828 – New Calendar) – Russian novelist – Anna Karenina

September 10

Franz Werfel (born September 10, 1890) – Czech-Austrian novelist, poet, playwright – The Forty Days of Musa Dagh (1933) FortyDays-Werfel

September 11

D(avid) H(erbert) Lawrence (born September 11, 1885) – U.K. novelist, poet, essayist – The Lost Girl

Read the Authors Calendar biography of Lawrence

( copy of the website)

O. Henry (William Sydney Porter) (born September 11, 1862) – U.S. short story writer – “Aristocracy versus Hash”

September 12

Louis Macneice (born September 12, 1907) – Irish poet

First verses of Bagpipe Music

It’s no go the merrygoround, it’s no go the rickshaw,
All we want is a limousine and a ticket for the peepshow.
Their knickers are made of crepe-de-chine, their shoes are made of python,
Their halls are lined with tiger rugs and their walls with head of bison.

John MacDonald found a corpse, put it under the sofa,
Waited till it came to life and hit it with a poker,
Sold its eyes for souvenirs, sold its blood for whiskey,
Kept its bones for dumbbells to use when he was fifty.

It’s no go the Yogi-man, it’s no go Blavatsky,
All we want is a bank balance and a bit of skirt in a taxi.

Annie MacDougall went to milk, caught her foot in the heather,
Woke to hear a dance record playing of Old Vienna.
It’s no go your maidenheads, it’s no go your culture,
All we want is a Dunlop tire and the devil mend the puncture.

The Laird o’ Phelps spent Hogmanay declaring he was sober,
Counted his feet to prove the fact and found he had one foot over.
Mrs. Carmichael had her fifth, looked at the job with repulsion,
Said to the midwife “Take it away; I’m through with overproduction.”

Read the entire poem here:


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