November 17, 2018
A solo performance with Garrison Keillor at the Palace Theatre.
November 15, 2018
A solo performance with Garrison Keillor at the Admiral Theatre.
Doors at 5:30 p.m.
November 3, 2018
Garrison Keillor performs with duet partner Lynne Peterson and longtime collaborator & pianist Richard Dworsky.
5:00 p.m. and 8:00 p.m.
October 14, 2018
Garrison makes a special appearance at the Burlington Book Festival, giving advice to writers.
A live performance at the Brady Theater
Now by Robert Browning. Public domain. (buy now)
Out of your whole life give but a moment!
All of your life that has gone before,
All to come after it,—so you ignore,
So you make perfect the present, —condense,
In a rapture of rage, for perfection’s endowment,
Thought and feeling and soul and sense—
Merged in a moment which gives me at last
You around me for once, you beneath me, above me—
Me—sure that despite of time future, time past, —
This tick of our life-time’s one moment you love me!
How long such suspension may linger? Ah, Sweet—
The moment eternal—just that and no more—
When ecstasy’s utmost we clutch at the core
While cheeks burn, arms open, eyes shut and lips meet!
It’s the birthday of the journalist and editor H.L. (Henry Louis) Mencken, (books by this author) born in Baltimore, Maryland (1880). He became one of the most influential and prolific journalists in America in the 1920s and ’30s, writing about all the shams and con artists in the world. He attacked chiropractors and the Ku Klux Klan, politicians and other journalists. Most of all, he attacked Puritan morality. He called Puritanism, “the haunting fear that someone, somewhere, may be happy.”
At the height of his career, he edited and wrote for The American Mercury magazine and the Baltimore Sun newspaper, wrote a nationally syndicated newspaper column for the Chicago Tribune, and published two or three books every year. His masterpiece was one of the few books he wrote about something he loved, a book called The American Language (1919), a history and collection of American vernacular speech. It included a translation of the Declaration of Independence into American English that began, “When things get so balled up that the people of a country got to cut loose from some other country, and go it on their own hook, without asking no permission from nobody, excepting maybe God Almighty, then they ought to let everybody know why they done it, so that everybody can see they are not trying to put nothing over on nobody.”
When asked what he would like for an epitaph, Mencken wrote, “If, after I depart this vale, you ever remember me and have thought to please my ghost, forgive some sinner and wink your eye at some homely girl.”
It’s the birthday of publisher Alfred A. Knopf (1892), born in New York City. He started his own publishing house when he was 23, and it soon gained a reputation for publishing works of literary merit. He was a hands-on boss, overseeing every aspect of production, down to the typeface. He wanted to publish quality books and didn’t really care how well they sold. In 1923, he published Khalil Gibran’s The Prophet and was nonplussed when it became a huge best-seller.
He co-founded the literary magazine The American Mercury with H.L. Mencken and George Jean Nathan in 1924, and remained its publisher for 10 years. He also published the work of several notable authors of the 20th century, including Franz Kafka, Sigmund Freud, D.H. Lawrence, James Baldwin, Theodore Dreiser, and Langston Hughes; his favorite of all his authors was Willa Cather.
Today is the birthday of poet and novelist Michael Ondaatje (1943) (books by this author). He was born in Colombo, Ceylon, now known as Sri Lanka, to parents who were both members of the colonial high society. He moved to England when he was 11, and Toronto when he was 19, and published his first collection of poetry, The Dainty Monsters (1967), when he was 24. He’s more widely known for his fiction than his poetry, particularly his 1992 novel, The English Patient, which won the Booker Prize. He also wrote Running in the Family (1982), which is part memoir and part family history, with a few poems thrown in. In it, he wrote: “Asia. The name was a gasp from a dying mouth. An ancient word that had to be whispered, would never be used as a battle cry. The word sprawled. It had none of the clipped sound of Europe, America, Canada. The vowels took over, slept on the map with the S.”
Today is the birthday of French scientist Irène Joliot-Curie, born in Paris (1897). She was the daughter of Pierre and Marie Curie. She was homeschooled as part of an educational experiment run by her parents and their friends. Called “The Cooperative,” the adults — all experts in their respective fields — took turns teaching one another’s children. She then studied at the Sorbonne, but World War I interrupted her university career, so she helped her mother operate mobile X-ray units in field hospitals instead.
She began assisting her mother in the lab at the Institute of Radium at the University of Paris when she was 21. That’s where she met a young chemical engineer named Frédéric Joliot; they were married in 1926, and in 1935, the husband and wife team won the Nobel Prize in chemistry, for artificially creating radioactive elements. Unfortunately, like her mother, Joliot-Curie developed leukemia as a result of her close work with radioactive substances; she died in 1956, at the age of 58.
Physicist James Chadwick wrote of her: “She knew her mind and spoke it, sometimes perhaps with devastating frankness; but her remarks were informed with such regard for scientific truth and with such conspicuous sincerity that they commanded the greatest respect in all circumstances.”
Elizabeth Barrett and Robert Browning eloped on this date in 1846. They had been courting in secret for a year and a half, through the mail, unbeknownst to her father. It had begun when Browning (books by this author) wrote Barrett (books by this author) a gushing fan letter, saying, “I love your verses with all my heart, dear Miss Barrett … and I love you too.” She wrote a long letter in return, thanking him and asking him for ways she might improve her writing. Barrett was an invalid, and was reliant on morphine, and it was some months before Browning convinced her to meet face to face. Barrett’s father didn’t like Browning, and viewed him as a fortune hunter.
On the day of the wedding, Browning posted another letter to Barrett, which read, “Words can never tell you, however, — form them, transform them anyway, — how perfectly dear you are to me — perfectly dear to my heart and soul. I look back, and in every one point, every word and gesture, every letter, every silence — you have been entirely perfect to me — I would not change one word, one look.” They were married at St. Marylebone Parish Church, and Barrett returned to her father’s house, where she stayed for one more week before she ran off to Italy with Browning. She never saw her father again. After the wedding, she presented Browning with a collection of poems she’d written during their courtship. It was published in 1850 as Sonnets from the Portuguese.