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It was one dark, dank, dreary, dismal night in February, 1888 (I believe that is the way to commence a book, no matter what the subject be), when the present writer might have been seen standing, with other gentlemen, in a sombre dining-room brilliantly illuminated with one ceiling-lamp buried in a deep red shade. We were standing round the dining-room table, each with a dinner-napkin in the left hand; while the right hand was occupied in moving back chairs, to permit of the departure of the ladies for the drawing-room. I could not help thinking that, as they filed off, the ladies looked like…mehr

Produktbeschreibung
It was one dark, dank, dreary, dismal night in February, 1888 (I believe that is the way to commence a book, no matter what the subject be), when the present writer might have been seen standing, with other gentlemen, in a sombre dining-room brilliantly illuminated with one ceiling-lamp buried in a deep red shade. We were standing round the dining-room table, each with a dinner-napkin in the left hand; while the right hand was occupied in moving back chairs, to permit of the departure of the ladies for the drawing-room. I could not help thinking that, as they filed off, the ladies looked like queens; while we (especially with the aid of the serviettes) looked like waiters. The gentlemen drew their chairs round the host, and wine was languidly passed round. A tall gentleman, with a heavy beard, to whom I had not been introduced, approached me, and sat by my side. He passed me the spirit-lamp, for which I thanked him while lighting my cigarette. He then commenced a conversation in earnest.
"Did you see that Mr. —— is writing his reminiscences?"
"Yes."
"Don't you think it rather a pity that he should do so?"
"Why a pity?" I asked in reply to his question.
"Well, I always think the moment a man begins to write his reminiscences he is bound, more or less, to make an ass of himself."
"In what way?" I asked.
"In the first place, he is hampered by having to be so egotistical. He must talk about himself, which is never a nice thing to do. He cannot very well tell stories in his own favour; and if he tells them against himself, he affects humility: if he talks about his distinguished acquaintances, he becomes a snob; in short, I can only repeat my former observation, that he is bound to make an ass of himself."
For a moment or two I did not know what to say, for my conscience smote me. At last I said:
"I am very pleased to hear your candid, and certainly unbiassed, opinion; for I have just accepted an offer from Mr. Arrowsmith to do a shilling book of my own reminiscences for the Bristol Library Series."
Autorenporträt
George Grossmith, an English humorist, writer, composer, actor, and singer, lived from 9 December 1847 to 1 March 1912. Over four decades made up his performing career. He produced 18 humorous operas, approximately 100 musical sketches, 600 songs and piano compositions, three books, as well as serious and lighthearted articles for newspapers and publications. Weedon and George Grossmith are brothers. Walter Weedon Grossmith, also known as Weedon Grossmith, was an English writer, painter, actor, and playwright. He is best known for co-authoring The Diary of a Nobody (1892) with his brother, the music hall comedian, and Gilbert and Sullivan performer George Grossmith. Walter Weedon Grossmith lived from 9 June 1854 to 14 June 1919. Weedon Grossmith received praise for his illustrations in The Diary of a Nobody. Before and during his time with Gilbert and Sullivan, Grossmith was also well-known for delivering his own humorous piano sketches and songs, making him the most well-liked British solo performer of the 1890s. Weedon Grossmith had a background in painting but was unable to support himself in that field, so he turned to acting mostly for financial gain. He wrote several plays and was a successful impresario, and performer.¿