The Writers exhibition, on display in the Schatten Gallery until November, features photographer Nancy Crampton’s pictures of authors,poets, novelists, journalists and other writers. A small selection of MARBL materials, chosen by guest curators from the Emory community, complements each photo. The materials illuminate the connections the writers have with each other and the special collections in MARBL. The guest curators were asked to write an essay explaining how their own research has been influenced by using primary source materials, and we will be featuring them here once a week. The following essay is by Rosemary Magee about Robert Penn Warren.
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As for Passepartout, he was a true Parisian of Paris. Since he had abandoned his own country for England, taking service as a valet, he had in vain searched for a master after his own heart. Passepartout was by no means one of those pert dunces depicted by Moliere with a bold gaze and a nose held high in the air; he was an honest fellow, with a pleasant face, lips a trifle protruding, soft-mannered and serviceable, with a good round head, such as one likes to see on the shoulders of a friend. His eyes were blue, his complexion rubicund, his figure almost portly and well-built, his body muscular, and his physical
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“Hast seen the White Whale?” “Look!” replied the hollow-cheeked captain from his taffrail; and with his trumpet he pointed to the wreck. “Hast killed him?” “The harpoon is not yet forged that ever will do that,” answered the other, sadly glancing upon a rounded hammock on the deck, whose gathered sides some noiseless sailors were busy in sewing together. “Not forged!” and snatching Perth’s levelled iron from the crotch, Ahab held it out, exclaiming—”Look ye, Nantucketer; here in this hand I hold his death! Tempered in blood, and tempered by lightning are these barbs; and I swear to temper them triply in that hot place behind the fin, where the White Whale most feels his accursed life!” “Then God keep thee, old man—see’st thou that”—pointing to the hammock—”I bury but one of five stout men, who were alive only yesterday; but were dead ere night. Only THAT one I bury; the rest were buried before they died; you sail upon their tomb.” Then turning to his crew—”Are ye ready