My father, Leo Henry Brown, really was talented - he could write. He had a gift, and he had a great, sly humor.
If I had to live on a desert island, and somebody gave me a chicken, there's no way I'd kill it - I'd call it Henry and make it my friend.
When I was seven years old, I fell in love with a series published by Bobbs-Merrill called 'The Childhood of Famous Americans.' In it, historical figures like Clara Barton, Nancy Hanks, Elias Howe, Patrick Henry, and dozens more came to life for me as children.
Thierry Henry is Thierry Henry. I still have everything to prove. By continuing to work, I will try to reach his level, but I am still very far off.
Henry Hays was cheated all his life. He was cheated by his father who taught him to hate. His community taught him to hate. My mom told me, no matter what one does in life, he or she deserves some compassion, and I knew Hays deserved compassion more than anybody.
I am re-reading Henry James as a change from history. I began with Daisy Miller, and I've just finished Washington Square. What a brilliant, painful book.
The nearest we have to a Henry James or an Edith Wharton of the East Coast's Wasp upper classes.
Most of the version of Tudor history we know is through the eyes of Henry VIII.
James's expedition to Scotland is wholly imaginary, though there appears to have been space for it during Henry's progress to the North to pay his devotions at Beverley Minster.
If you look at my personal library, you will notice that it ranges from Henry James to Steig Larsson, from Margaret Atwood to Max Hastings. There's Jane Austen and Tom Perrotta and volumes of letters from Civil War privates. It's pretty eclectic.
