#autobiography

Autobiography is the most objective genre of historical fiction there is. I would consider it a scientific method, but as it doesn’t involve making hypotheses it is far more accurate. ↗

— Bauvard

#funny #humor #objectivity #science #funny

Mistakes? That's why they put erasers on pencils. ↗

— Rick Barnett

#biography #fiction #inspirational #memoir #romance

In fact Sarah Palin has created more jobs than Obama has. She created eleven jobs fact-checking at the AP just for the Palin autobiography. ↗

— Ann Coulter

#created #eleven #fact #in fact #jobs

For 20 years, Simon & Schuster asked me, 'Why don't you write your autobiography?' ↗

— Arnold Schwarzenegger

#asked #autobiography #me #simon #why

Every autobiography is concerned with two characters, a Don Quixote, the Ego, and a Sancho Panza, the Self. ↗

— W. H. Auden

#characters #concerned #don quixote #ego #every

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

— John Berger

#autobiography #begins #being #being alone #form

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

— Mary J. Blige

#just #life #music #my life

So an autobiography about death should include, in my case, an account of European Jewry and of Russian and Jewish events - pogroms and flights and murders and the revolution that drove my mother to come here. ↗

— Harold Brodkey

#account #autobiography #case #come #death

I was trying to write an autobiography using prints and patterns that reference emotional, psychological, and personal development in my work, as a person growing up, figuring out who I was. I used fabrics to stand in for occurrences. ↗

— Jim Hodges

#development #emotional #fabrics #figuring #growing

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