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We are dying, we are dying, piecemeal our bodies are dying and our strength leaves us, and our soul cowers naked in the dark rain over the flood, cowering in the last branches of the tree of our life. David Herbert Lawrence		Monday May 19, 2025
		Quotes: 53419 Authors: 9969

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On the Fourth of July, 1826, America celebrated its Jubilee the Fiftieth Anniversary of Independence. John Adams, second President of the United States, died that day, aged ninety, while from Maine to Georgia bells rang and cannon boomed. And on that sameday, Thomas Jefferson died before sunset in Virginia. In their dying, in that swift, so aptly celebrated double departure, is something which shakes an American to the heart. It was not their great fame, their long lives or even the record of their work that made these two seem indestructible. It was their faith, their bounding, unquenchable faith in the future, their sure, immortal belief that mankind, if it so desired, could be free.

Catherine Drinker Bowen

Quote Author: Catherine Drinker Bowen

Catherine Drinker Bowen

Catherine Drinker Bowen

Catherine Drinker Bowen, born January 1, 1897 in Haverford, PA as Catherine Drinker, was an American biographer. She won the 1958 National Book Award in nonfiction for The Lion and the Throne: The Life and Times of Sir Edward Coke. In addition, Bowen received the 1957 Philadelphia Award and the 1962 Women's National Book Association award. She married Ezra Bowen, Chair Economics at Lehigh Univ. and author of "Social Economics", died November 1, 1973 in Haverford, PA. Survived by her son Ezra Bowen (died Westport, Ct 1996), Sport's Illustrated & Time-Life writer and Editor; grandson Ezra D. Bowen, and now great grandchildren Leslie R Bowen and Elizabeth D. Bowen.

Other Catherine Drinker Bowen Quotes

There is a marvelous turn and trick to British arrogance; its apparent unconsciousness makes it twice as effectual.

Chamber music -- a conversation between friends.

I speak truth, not so much as I would, but as much as I dare; and I dare a little more, as I grown older.

Great artists treasure their time with a bitter and snarling miserliness.

Many a man who has known himself at ten forgets himself utterly between ten and thirty.

On the Fourth of July, 1826, America celebrated its Jubilee the Fiftieth Anniversary of Independence. John Adams, second President of the United States, died that day, aged ninety, while from Maine to Georgia bells rang and cannon boomed. And on that sameday, Thomas Jefferson died before sunset in Virginia. In their dying, in that swift, so aptly celebrated double departure, is something which shakes an American to the heart. It was not their great fame, their long lives or even the record of their work that made these two seem indestructible. It was their faith, their bounding, unquenchable faith in the future, their sure, immortal belief that mankind, if it so desired, could be free.

For your born writer, nothing is so healing as the realization that he has come upon the right word.

Will the reader turn the page?

Writing, I think, is not apart from living. Writing is a kind of double living. The writer experiences everything twice. Once in reality and once in that mirror which waits always before or behind.

In writing biography, fact and fiction shouldn't be mixed. And if they are, the fiction parts should be printed in red ink, the fact parts in black ink.