It is hard to determine which is more beautiful, the voice of Maria Callas or her smile when she walked on the stage for special performances. She looks like she always lit up the room. She died September 16, 1977. Here are two videos to remember her by.
I am not an angel and do not pretend to be. That is not one of my roles. But I am not the devil either. I am a woman and a serious artist, and I would like so to be judged.
Maria Callas sings D’amour l’ardente flamme – Berlioz – La Damnation de Faust
An opera begins long before the curtain goes up and ends long after it has come down. It starts in my imagination, it becomes my life, and it stays part of my life long after I’ve left the opera house.
Maria Callas sings Coppia Iniqua Live in London in 1962
When my enemies stop hissing,
I shall know I’m slipping.
Dogs are wise. They crawl away into a quiet corner and lick their wounds and do not rejoin the world until they are whole once more.
~ Agatha Christie, born September 15, 1890
Thanks to her sister, Agatha Christie wrote her first novel on a dare. Having worked in a pharmacy learning about poisons and travelling the world with her second husband, she could weave quite a tale.
A person is a fool to become a writer. His only compensation is absolute freedom.
~ Roald Dahl
Visit with Roald Dahl’s wife and Director Wes Anderson as he talks about his stay at Roald Dahls’s Buckinghamshire home. Anderson was inspired by his visits and if you’ve seen the Fantastic Mr. Fox movie, you can see traces of Roald Dahl.
My life has been the poem I would have writ,
But I could not both live and utter it.
On Sep 6, 1847, Henry David Thoreau leaves his home on Walden to move into the home of Ralph Waldo Emerson, his mentor. Nothing describes who Henry David Thoreau was more than his own words. His appreciation for nature and his surroundings speaks volumes and as a reader, we are thankful that the city life was not for him.
An excerpt from Where I Lived, and What I Lived For Walden Or Life In The Woods by Henry David Thoreau
The only house I had been the owner of before, if I except a boat, was a tent, which I used occasionally when making excursions in the summer, and this is still rolled up in my garret; but the boat, after passing from hand to hand, has gone down the stream of time. With this more substantial shelter about me, I had made some progress toward settling in the world. This frame, so slightly clad, was a sort of crystallization around me, and reacted on the builder. It was suggestive somewhat as a picture in outlines. I did not need to go outdoors to take the air, for the atmosphere within had lost none of its freshness. It was not so much within doors as behind a door where I sat, even in the rainiest weather. The Harivansa says, “An abode without birds is like a meat without seasoning.” Such was not my abode, for I found myself suddenly neighbor to the birds; not by having imprisoned one, but having caged myself near them. I was not only nearer to some of those which commonly frequent the garden and the orchard, but to those smaller and more thrilling songsters of the forest which never, or rarely, serenade a villager – the wood thrush, the veery, the scarlet tanager, the field sparrow, the whip-poor-will, and many others.