Word: victorian
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Dates: during 2000-2009
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...first book, Down and Out in Paris and London, was a nonfiction account of several months in the late 1920s spent among hoboes and whores, picking hops and washing dishes. Worried about his parents' reaction to his stark life, he took the pseudonym George Orwell - probably from his hero Victorian novelist George Gissing and from the Orwell, a Suffolk river whose precincts the young nature lover hiked. It was a commercial flop, but it established him as a proletarian writer with an eye for detail. He began picking up commissions for essays and reviews, sometimes turning out four or five...
...Grace kids, Mallory, Jared and Simon, are the latest tyro trio to find themselves entangled in creepy adventures. Especially after a busted marriage forces them to move from the city into a ramshackle Victorian manse. Mallory's hair gets mysteriously knotted to the headboard of her bed. Simon's tadpoles are frozen into an ice-cube tray. Blame seems to rest on Jared, until he uncovers a strange book, a field guide to faeries that identifies the culprits. Turns out faeries are not all Tinkerbell types; the genus encompasses goblins, hobgoblins, brownies, trolls, ogres, dwarfs and sprites, some of them...
...McCall Smith knows plenty about academics - his day job is teaching medical law at the University of Edinburgh. He's one of those insufferably gifted people who can dabble in this and that and do it all well, as can be seen in the professorially cluttered study in the Victorian flat he shares with his wife Elizabeth, their two daughters and a Tonkinese cat called Gordon. There are promo leaflets for the Italian translations of Mma Ramotswe, as his heroine is called according to Botswana etiquette; tomes on law and medicine; a report from Britain's Human Genetics Commission...
...touts the English Department’s promotion of Leah Price ’91, a 31-year-old scholar of Victorian literature, as part of his push to tenure young scholars whose best work lies ahead...
...Airport in New York on May 14. For an hour and a half she was interrogated, fingerprinted and, she says, talked down to by customs officials. Afterward, in the corridor of the airport, drained and shaken, she did something she has never done: she fainted, "like one of these Victorian ladies," she says, laughing. Or like her mother, watching her leave Tehran airport so many years before. Then Satrapi got up, climbed into a waiting limo, rolled down the windows and started smoking...