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edited because I found a picture. He was. . . pretty. That's about all I can say about him. Couldn't find a picture of his sister though |
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Our English teacher told us this story (and it sat, undisturbed, in my memory for the past 8 years until now)...
When poet Percy Shelley died (drowned in a boating accident?), his friends decided to burn his body on a pyre. Byron was among the attendees. As Shelley's body popped open from the heat (like a hot dog in a microwave), Byron supposedly reached in, pulled out the heart and handed it to his lady friend, saying "Here, this is the heart of a great poet!" |
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That story is gross! Those romantics, I dunno... And you just know that in his head, Keats turned the thrashing, blubbering, head-pounding panic of trying to save his non-swimming friend from drowning into a gloriously tragic sinking into sweet death. The Garner who cares. |
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Romantics...I'm telling you, both in writing and in music they were over the top. Bach was damn difficult to learn, but at least his works were like very interesting puzzles eg, how to play a fugue without splicing your brain. Romantics were just plain difficult, with all those trills and frills and stuff.
Bah! give me the Classics every time. |
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Let's see, whenever Gaston Leroux ("Phantom of the Opera") would finish a book, he'd stick his head out the window and yell - this would signal for his family to run around banging pots and pans in celebration. When Edgar Rice Burroughs wrote his first Tarzan novel, he accidentally put a tiger in the middle of an African jungle (when I started writing a story about a tiger, I did the same thing, only I put him in the middle of a savannah :p ) |
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