Elle Newmark
The early twentieth century was a period in which American writers worked across a range of forms, navigating a literary culture shaped by rapid social and cultural change. Elle Newmark was part of that broad tradition, born on January 1, 1901, a citizen of the United States who pursued a life in writing.
The available record places Newmark within the company of American writers of her era, though the specifics of her output remain sparsely documented in the sources at hand. What can be said is that she worked as a writer, contributing to a national literary landscape that was itself in the process of defining what American authorship could mean for women in the twentieth century. The facts on record do not extend to particular titles or honors, and so the biography must rest on those essentials: an American woman, born at the turn of the century, who identified and practiced as a writer.
Quotes by Elle Newmark
I think that when you create borders based on ideology you create a reason to fight. When you live side by side, you create a reason to get along.
It’s not that the past doesn’t matter, it’s that the future matters more, and the present matters most of all.
I was curious about the foreign foods I would come to know as chorizo, fire-roasted piquillo peppers, La Mancha saffron sealed in blue clay jars, Serrano ham, and pickled eggplant. That kitchen smelled like a cross between my maestro's kitchen and Borgia's. It had the clean airiness I was accustomed to, but a tang of briny olives and smoked meats flavored the air.
I remember that pomegranate well- the leathery red skin, the fleshy weight of it in my hand promising wine-sweet clusters of ruby fruit. As I lifted it off the pile, I imagined the satisfying crunch, the release of tangy perfume, the juices glazing my lips and running down my chin. Ah, that biblical fruit with its poignant umbilical tip, choice of the gods and food of the dead.
Chef Ferrero had taken charge of the main dish himself. Tender veal cutlets had been dipped in beaten eggs and seasoned flour, then lightly seared and served in a dark brown sauce. The presentation was completed with a sprinkle of lavender leaves and marigold petals- green and gold, like a spring morning- and served with a loaf of crusty bread rather than the customary glazed onions.
I realized that cats make a perfect audience, they don't laugh at you, they never contradict you, there's no need to impress them, and they won't divulge your secrets.
Even the narrow canals around the Rialto teemed with floating shops- a small barge piled with jumbled green grapes, a boat heaped with oranges and limes, and another listing under a mountain of melons. I jogged along, drunk on all the colors and smells of the known world: pyramids of blood oranges from Greece, slender green beans from Morocco, sun-ripened cherries from Provence, giant white cabbages from Germany, fat black dates from Constantinople, and shiny purple eggplants from Holland.
