#autobiography

Dialogue in the works of autobiography is quite naturally viewed with some suspicion. How on earth can the writer remember verbatim conversations that happened fifteen, twenty, fifty years ago? But 'Are you playing, Bob?' is one of only four sentences I have ever uttered to any Arsenal player (for the record the others are 'How's the leg, Bob?' to Bob Wilson, recovering from injury the following season; 'Can I have your autograph, please?' to Charlie George, Pat Rice, Alan Ball and Bertie Mee; and, well, 'How's the leg, Brian?' to Brian Marwood outside the Arsenal club shop when I was old enough to know better) and I can therefore vouch for its absolute authenticity. ↗

— Nick Hornby

#football #nature

When my mother left her second husband, she wrote her autobiography and presented it to him for his approval. ↗

— David Antin

#autobiography #her #him #his #husband

Autobiography begins with a sense of being alone. It is an orphan form. ↗

— John Berger

#autobiography #begins #being #being alone #form

The book is called 'Thanks for Nothing' and it's really the story of how I got into comedy and traces back every strand in my life that is relevant to that story. It's kind of an autobiography but isn't, as it stops about 25 years ago. It goes right up to the first time I do stand up. ↗

— Jack Dee

#ago #autobiography #back #book #called

'My Life' is not an autobiography. It's just music. ↗

— Mary J. Blige

#just #life #music #my life

One of the more fatuous remarks I've heard in recent days is that 'My Life,' Clinton's autobiography, is too long and, at almost 1,000 pages, short it is not. But this man was for eight years the President of the most powerful country on earth. ↗

— Alastair Campbell

#autobiography #clinton #country #days #earth

All art is autobiographical. The pearl is the oyster's autobiography. ↗

— Federico Fellini

#autobiographical #autobiography #oyster #pearl

The school year progressed slowly. I felt as if I had been in the sixth grade for years, yet it was only October. Halloween was approaching. Coming from Ireland, we had never thought of it as a big holiday, though Sarah and I usually went out trick-or treating. For the last couple of years I had been too sick to go out, but this year Halloween fell on a day when I felt quiet fine. My mother was the one who came up with the Eskimo idea. I put on a winter coat, made a fish out of paper, which I hung on the end of a stick, and wrapped my face up in a scarf. My hair was growing in, and I loved the way the top of the hood rubbed against it. By this time my hat had become part of me; I took it off only at home. Sometimes kids would make fun of me, run past me, knock my hat off, and call me Baldy. I hated this, but I assumed that one day my hair would grow in, and on that day the teasing would end. We walked around the neighborhood with our pillowcase sacks, running into other groups of kids and comparing notes: the house three doors down gave whole candy bars, while the house next to that gave only cheap mints. I felt wonderful. It was only as the night wore on and the moon came out and the older kids, the big kids, went on their rounds that I began to realize why I felt so good. No one could see me clearly. No one could see my face. ↗

— Lucy Grealy

#love

I have a children's book already out and my autobiography. ↗

— Della Reese

#autobiography #book #children #i #out

A man's face is his autobiography. A woman's face is her work of fiction. ↗

— Oscar Wilde

#face #fiction #her #his #man