Mr Stratford Quotes

And there on the piss-soaked cobbles, his back to the alley and his face to the wall, lay the object of their diplomatic mission: A sleeping drunk. Colt lay out his hand in a flourish. “Mr. Billings, may I introduce to you His Imperial Majesty Joshua Norton the First, Emperor of the United States of America and Protector of Mexico.

Alexander Waugh suggests that “Sweet Swan of Avon” was purposefully ambiguous: “Jonson was allowing, and probably expecting, some of his readers—those of ‘seeliest Ignorance’—to think of Stratford-upon-Avon, home to the late Mr. Will. Shakspere.” Others—the discriminating few—would know better.

The portrait had been discovered in 1860 when Mr. William Oakes Hunt, the town clerk of Stratford, employed a visiting art expert named Simon Collins to examine a group of portraits long lodged inside the Hunt attic. These paintings were believed to have descended from the aristocratic Clopton family. Mr. Hunt recalled as a child using the portraits for archery practice, but by 1860 he’d become curious as to their value. When hired to appraise these attic portraits, Simon Collins had just finished the prestigious job of restoring Stratford’s world-famous funerary bust of Shakespeare that hovered like a putty-nosed wraith over the poet’s tomb in the chancel of Holy Trinity Church. Posed with pen and paper while sporting the pickdevant-styled pointy beard and up-brushed mustache popular from 1570 to 1600, the bust has long been championed as one of the most authentic likenesses of the poet; nevertheless, back in 1793 a curator named Edmond Malone had decided to whitewash the entire bust, which until then had been unique in portraying Shakespeare wearing a blood-red jerkin beneath a black sleeveless jacket.

This son was also a grandson of the overseer. Yes, relationships could become complicated in those days, with the masters having children outside marriage by their slaves or by the local women. Okeke was that grandson’s name. He would be my age if he is still alive. For a few years he was educated and then he worked for Mr. Stratford-Rice. When times were hard Mr. Stratford-Rice went into the slave-trading business. They brought slaves from Cuba and sold them to countries that continued slavery. Sometimes when their cargo was low they took some easy pickings from the shores of Black River.

Actually, a vast number of men, even when they are in the springtime of their lives, “kill” time by reading “shockers”, solving crossword puzzles, studying the worthless tips of racetrack touts, by loafing on the street corner or in pubs and by scores of other time-wasting devices. In most cases, time is all they have. It is their only capital. And their steady desire is to destroy it. Speaking of crossword puzzles, Mr. Esme Wingfield-Stratford truly says: “Energy must find an outlet somewhere, even in the most atrophied mind, and that it may drain itself easily and agreeably into vacancy, puzzles and competitions are devised, culminating in the invention of the crossword, perhaps the most scientific of all time-killing devices, with its capacity for holding the attention just sufficiently to keep the brain employed in the most useless of all possible activities for hours on end.

The oddly shaped man had introduced himself as a Mr. Abernathy, a wealthy friend of the family. "I'm a wealthy friend of the family," he had said. "Very rich. Friendly.

Accomplished military veteran-writer Tom Keating’s new book, Elephants, Secrets and Submarines: Stories & Essays (76 pp. Stratford Publishing) is a collection of fifteen short stories. Some are related as memoirs, while the rest are described as fiction. The stories all come together to form the truth of the story Keating has to tell and continues to do so since his acclaimed book, Yesterday’s Soldier. These stories have previously appeared in such places as MicroLit and the Wrath Bearing Tree. The stories begin to come alive immediately in the fascinating names of some of the characters. There’s Mr. Filteau, Mrs. Heffernan, and Mr. Pugliese. Then there’s Paul Chu, Officer Cronin, Sister Helena, and the Hunyadi’s. We read about growing up during a time when you hoped to be invited over by a neighborhood family who actually owned a television set. Early on Keating mentions one of his first jobs, saying, “I loved every minute of it.” There are memories of playing Wiffle ball in the back yard before moving on to actual baseball, of which Keating, a switch hitter, recalls, “I loved the game.” There’s a marvelous story about what happens when a young Keating, while helping clean out the convent’s basement at his Catholic school, uncovers “the treasure.” In one story, a woman you’ll have trouble getting out of your mind, and why would you want to, is the one known as ”The Little Black Rose.” Other stories feature such people as “JoAnn the bar maid,” or Vietnamese hooch-maids, or American nurses serving in Vietnam who look like Doris Day. Once he gets to Vietnam, Keating (or his alter-ego Tim Kearney) discovers he has guilt feelings about being on a large safe base. Despite that, there is intense combat action within these tales. The collection, being chronological in nature, wraps up with visits to the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. These short stories contain worlds within them. They are suggestive of so much more going on than what is described. You can easily find yourself lost, in a good way, within them. They are also stories that hold up well upon rereading. Tom Keating has a really natural, smooth, writing style that makes his stories go down easily. This book is made up of some of the stories that he has to tell. Stories that he seems to take an obvious delight in telling. They’re his stories, but they can also become yours to appreciate and enjoy. I hope you make that happen.