The Secrets of Grown-Ups
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
Vera Caspary, the celebrated author of Laura, tells her own story in this captivating autobiography. With a career that spanned from the 1920s through 1970s, one that produced over twenty novels, in addition to her many credits for film and theater, Caspary centered her life around a passion for writing. From her early experiences at an advertisement agency-where she developed a correspondence school and invented its "famed" instructor-to the struggles of being gray-listed in the McCarthy Era, Caspary constantly found a way to turn her creative needs into viable work. Caspary recalls the rest of a full life, too, including her flirtation with communism, travels across Europe, and a marriage. Caspary's skillful writing makes her incredible depictions of people, and the times in which they lived, jump off the page."
LIKE THIS was followed by a facsimile signature, Sergei Marinoff. His given name was suggested by a Russian novel, the surname by the name of an actress, Fania Marinoff. The ad told how the famous master, moved by the plight of those who, yearning for the instruction of an authentic ballet teacher but living far from the great capitals where the great masters taught, had devised an original method of home study. Little was written about Marinoff himself. Allusions to the great capitals of Europe
slang name of a slum in Atlanta. In reply to my telegram the Atlanta Chamber of Commerce confirmed the fact. With this proof I went triumphantly to Oursler’s office and got permission to use the unholy phrase. It was not Billy Pierce who invented the Black Bottom. If it was created in his studio, its author was his teacher. Buddy Bradley. No one ever called him Mr. Bradley; he was Buddy to his pupils, whom he loved as he loved his work, loved to dance and arrange dance routines. He too became my
for the bravado of young playwrights. A mischievous gleam in her bright blue eyes, a hand run with calculated abandon through wild curls, color mounting in her veined cheeks, she stood like a rowdy Valkyrie looking down on a poor mortal. “That’s quite a play you’ve written, my girl.” If these were not the precise words, they are approximate. “Of course it needs a lot of work.” Not knowing that this is inevitable when a play is submitted, I thought I had heard the voice of God. She was right—the
Worker. There was no explanation the next day. There was no Daily Worker. The most omniscient of the Left-Wing pundits were baffled by the contradiction. But the Right Wing was glib enough in explaining the causes and timing of the pact. What a hue and cry went up in the press and radio; on one side vindictive glee, on the other indignant righteousness; the triumph of conservative columnist and reactionary commentator opposed by the tortured explanations of Party leaders. At a Communist rally in
quarrel after their walk in the hills, for Igee came home, his face scarlet with fury and said he would never speak to Fritz again as long as he lived. The quarrel probably contributed to that first heart attack. He recovered quickly and shortly afterward, believing the desert sun a cure for all the ills of beast and man, went alone to Palm Springs. I, who loathe the excess of sunshine, the parched air, the absence of grass and trees, was glad for the excuse of work. He gave me his promise that