Could I be considered a true Mark Twain fanatic if I let Nostromo beat me out with his biography on JOSEPH CONRAD? But of course not.
“This memory of ours stores up a perfect record of the most useless facts and anecdotes and experiences. And all the things that we ought to know- that we need to know- that we'd profit by knowing- it casts aside with the careless indifference of a girl refusing her true lover.” - Morals and Memory speech, Mark Twain (Samuel L. Clemens)
If there is anything that we ought to know, is the life of Mark Twain. He was a cultural figure who's still alive today... along with all his books. Anyway... heres his bio... (well, as close as I could get without stickin' only to boring facts or talking disecting his linen drawer)
Mark Twain was a write, journalist, and lecturer who was born in Florida, MO. He left school at twelve years old and worked first as a printer and then as a riverboat pilot. In 1861, he tried his luck as a Confederate volunteer and hated it. So he went to Nevada where he tried gold mining and then edited a newspaper. In 1864 he went to San Francisco as a reporter and achieved his first success with "The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County" (1865). (a lovely story, I might add).
In 1866, he visited the Sandwich Islands on a newspaper assignment and his articles gained him some reputation, which in turn launched his career as a lecturer. In 1867, he took a trip to Europe and the Holy Land, and his humorous description of his experiences made him an even more popular dude. He repeated its success with later travel books.
“On his return to America in 1867, he settled in the East, marrying Olivia Langdon, daughter of a wealthy New York coal merchant (1870); they had four children. In 1871, he moved to Hartford, Conn., and built a distinctive house (now open to the public) at the center of a community of artists known as Nook Farm. He collaborated with one of them, Charles Dudley Warner, on a novel satirizing post-Civil War America, The Gilded Age (1873). He won wide popularity with The Adventures of Tom Sawyer (1876), The Prince and the Pauper (1882), and A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court (1889), but it was The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (1884, England; 1885, U.S.A.) that eventually became regarded as a seminal work of American literature.”
"...and every day of his life he put on a clean shirt and a full suit from head to toe made out of linen so white it hurt your eyes to look at it." That was written by Huck Finn, in a passage Samuel Clemens wrote around 1880, about the "aristocratic" Colonel Grangerford. Strangely enough… in December, 1906, Mark Twain himself started dressing this way. It was a perfect costume for him because most readers today picture “mark twain” in white. In his autobiography, lol, he offered hygiene as his reason for wearing white. It seemed to appeal to reporters and others mainly as a dramatic instance of his unconventionality. Perhaps it was the look of the Southern planters whom Samuel Clemens grew up envying and whom he satirized in figures like Col. Grangerford.
He first displayed himself in white at a Congressional hearing on copyright. He insisted on calling attention to the garb, but the reporters present were obviously delighted to publicize the event, to treat Mark Twain as a story the whole nation would be interested in. lol, and they were!
Poor investments wiped out most of his earnings by 1894, but a world lecture tour and sales of his books restored some of his wealth. Even so, he was still slightly pessimistic. His humor was always a slight layer of cynicism and disillusion. Between the loss of his two daughters in 1896 and 1909 and the loss of his beloved wife in 1904, that was understandable. You can see his his hardened attitude and dark view he held of fellow humans in his essays on man.
Huck Finn "don't take no stock in dead people," but the death of Mark Twain in 1910 was treated in all parts of the country as a major event in America's history. Which it was! It also provided an occasion for writers and readers, journalists and critics, to assess the significance and achievement of "Mark Twain" ~ in his times and for all time. Mark Twain was perhaps the best-known national celebrity. His final illness, death and funeral were treated as front page news across the country. He was buried in Elmira, where his wife and daughters were already buried. But to allow his public a chance to pay their respects, his body was first taken to New York City, where thousands saw it in the Presbyterian Brick Church. The viewing was open to the public, but if you had a ticket you could be admitted first.
People sure are odd ducks.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* "I may have my faults, but being wrong ain't one of them." ~ Jimmy Hoffa
did you know how he got his name, Mark Twain? Well, as you know he lived by the river, and "mark twain" is a river boating term... meaning "mark the twain" like rope while, i dunno, river boating i guess
byeee
great job btw
"blah blah blah, yakety schmakety"
Posts: 164 | Location: San Francisco, CA USA | Registered: 09-06-00
I think that "mark twain" is a particular water depth that is safe for steam boats to travel in or something. Not wanting to start an arguement, that's just how I remember it.
Posts: 46 | Location: Rolla, MO, USA | Registered: 02-01-01
What does Mark Twain mean? On river boats, one member of the crew always stood near the railing measuring the depth of the water with a long cord which had flags spaced a fathom (six feet) apart. When the crewman saw the flags disappear he would call out "Mark One!" for one fathom and for two fathoms he called out "Mark Twain!" Two fathoms meant safe clearance for river boats, so Sam Clemens chose a name which not only recalled his life on the river but which also had a reassuring "all's well" meaning. http://www.robinsonresearch.com/LITERATE/AUTHORS/Twain.htm
"He became a professional miner, but not a rich one. He was at Aurora, California, in the Esmeralda district, skimping along, with not much to eat and less to wear, when he was summoned by Joe Goodman, owner and editor of the Virginia City Enterprise, to come up and take the local editorship of that paper. He had been contributing sketches to it now and then, under the pen name of "Josh," and Goodman, a man of fine literary instincts, recognized a talent full of possibilities. This was in the late summer of 1862. Clemens walked one hundred and thirty miles over very bad roads to take the job, and arrived way-worn and travel-stained. He began on a salary of twenty-five dollars a week, picking up news items here and there, and contributing occasional sketches -- burlesques, hoaxes, and the like. When the Legislature convened at Carson City he was sent down to report it, and then, for the first time, began signing his articles "Mark Twain," a river term, used in making soundings, recalled from his piloting days. The name presently became known up and down the Pacific coast. His articles were copied and commented upon. He was recognized as one of the foremost among a little coterie of overland writers, two of whom, Mark Twain and Bret Harte, were soon to acquire a worldwide fame." http://www.marktwain.about.com/arts/marktwain/library/letters/bl_letter_bio.htm
I once received an email of a poem written by Mark Twain. It was really inspirational. I can't really remember it, anyone who can help, i'd love to see it again
Posts: 11 | Location: Australia | Registered: 03-04-01
In Memoriam By Mark Twain From The $30,000 Bequest and Other Stories (New York: Harper & Brothers, 1906).
In Memoriam Olivia Susan Clemens Died August 18, 1896; Aged 24 In a fair valley -- oh, how long ago, how long ago! Where all the broad expanse was clothed in vines And fruitful fields and meadows starred with flowers, And clear streams wandered at their idle will, And still lakes slept, their burnished surfaces A dream of painted clouds, and soft airs Went whispering with odorous breath, And all was peace -- in that fair vale, Shut from the troubled world, a nameless hamlet drowsed. Hard by, apart, a temple stood; And strangers from the outer world Passing, noted it with tired eyes, And seeing, saw it not: A glimpse of its fair form -- an answering momentary thrill -- And they passed on, careless and unaware. They could not know the cunning of its make; They could not know the secret shut up in its heart; Only the dwellers of the hamlet knew: They knew that what seemed brass was gold; What marble seemed, was ivory; The glories that enriched the milky surfaces -- The trailing vines, and interwoven flowers, And tropic birds awing, clothed all in tinted fire -- They knew for what they were, not what they seemed: Encrustings all of gems, not perishable splendors of the brush. They knew the secret spot where one must stand -- They knew the surest hour, the proper slant of sun -- To gather in, unmarred, undimmed, The vision of the fane in all its fairy grace, A fainting dream against the opal sky. And more than this. They knew That in the temple's inmost place a spirit dwelt, Made all of light! For glimpses of it they had caught Beyond the curtains when the priests That served the altar came and went. All loved that light and held it dear That had this partial grace; But the adoring priests alone who lived By day and night submerged in its immortal glow Knew all its power and depth, and could appraise the loss If it should fade and fail and come no more. All this was long ago -- so long ago! The light burned on; and they that worship'd it, And they that caught its flash at intervals and held it dear, Contented lived in its secure possession. Ah, How long ago it was! And then when they Were nothing fearing, and God's peace was in the air, And none was prophesying harm -- The vast disaster fell: Where stood the temple when the sun went down, Was vacant desert when it rose again! Ah, yes! 'Tis ages since it chanced! So long ago it was, That from the memory of the hamlet-folk the Light has passed -- They scarce believing, now, that once it was, Or, if believing, yet not missing it, And reconciled to have it gone. Not so the priests! Oh, not so The stricken ones that served it day and night, Adoring it, abiding in the healing of its peace: They stand, yet, where erst they stood Speechless in that dim morning long ago; And still they gaze, as then they gazed, And murmur, "It will come again; It knows our pain -- it knows -- it knows -- Ah, surely it will come again." ~S. L. C. Lake Lucerne, August 18, 1897.
