Evan S. Connell
Evan S. Connell
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Full Name and Common Aliases
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Evan S. Connell Jr. was an American writer and poet known for his nuanced portrayals of the human condition.
Birth and Death Dates
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Connell was born on January 24, 1924, in Kansas City, Missouri, and passed away on February 10, 2003, at the age of 79.
Nationality and Profession(s)
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Connell's nationality was American, and he worked as a writer and poet throughout his career. He is perhaps best known for his novels and poetry collections that explore themes of love, family, war, and social justice.
Early Life and Background
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Connell grew up in Kansas City during the Great Depression. His early life experiences would later influence his writing, particularly in works like "Mrs. Bridge" (1959), which explores the lives of the American middle class. After serving in World War II, Connell attended Stanford University on the GI Bill.
Major Accomplishments
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Connell's literary career spanned over four decades and included numerous critically acclaimed novels and poetry collections. Some notable works include:
"Mrs. Bridge" (1959), a novel about a middle-class American woman struggling to find meaning in her life.
"Mr. Bridge" (1968), the companion piece to "Mrs. Bridge," which explores the world of its husband, George Bridge.
* "The Evening Star" (1978), a sequel to "Mrs. Bridge," where Mrs. Bridge is now an older woman reflecting on her life.
Connell's writing style was characterized by its subtlety and nuance, often exploring themes of human relationships and social class through the eyes of ordinary people.
Notable Works or Actions
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In addition to his novels and poetry collections, Connell also worked as a journalist and wrote for various publications. His work has been widely praised for its insight into the human condition and the experiences of everyday Americans.
Impact and Legacy
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Connell's writing continues to be widely read and studied today due in part to its enduring relevance. His portrayals of ordinary people facing extraordinary circumstances have resonated with readers, making his works an essential part of American literary heritage.
Why They Are Widely Quoted or Remembered
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Connell's unique voice and nuanced understanding of human relationships have made him a celebrated figure in American literature. His writing continues to inspire new generations of writers and readers, cementing his place as one of the most important voices of the 20th century.
Through his work, Connell invites readers into the lives of ordinary people, revealing the complexities and beauty of human existence.
Quotes by Evan S. Connell
You’re not as cold as you pretend to be,’ she said. ‘I think your doors open in different places, that’s all. Most people just don’t know how to get in to you. They knock and they knock where the door is supposed to be, but it’s a blank wall. But you’re there. I’ve watched you. I’ve seen you do some awfully cold things warmly and some warm things coldly. Or does that make sense?
The years were falling over like ducks in a shooting gallery, and it seemed to Mr. Bridge that he had scarcely taken aim at one when it disappeared.
Thirty, thirty-five, forty, all had come to visit her like admonitory relatives, and all had slipped away without a trace, without a sound, and now, once again, she was waiting.
Passava molto tempo a fissare il vuoto, oppressa da un senso di attesa. Ma attesa di che cosa? Non lo sapeva.
Trenta, trentacinque, quaranta: gli anni erano sempre passati a farle visita come zie criticone, e sempre erano scomparsi senza lasciare traccia, senza fare rumore. E adesso ne era arrivato un altro.
La neve cadde tutta la notte. Cadde senza fare rumore e coprì il terreno gelato e le foglie morte sotto l'acero, e piegò i rami delle conifere, e per ore e ore cadde come farina dalle nuvole alte color madreperla.
I wouldn't have missed it for the world," said Mrs. Bridge, smiling all around, "and I feel awfully lucky. Even so we were certainly glad to see the Union Station. I suppose no matter how far you go there's no place like home." She could see they agreed with her, and surely what she had said was true, yet she was troubled and for a moment she was almost engulfed by a nameless panic.
She spent a great deal of time staring into space, oppressed by the sense that she was waiting. But waiting for what? She did not know. Surely someone would call, someone must be needing her. Yet each day proceeded like the one before. Nothing intense, nothing desperate, ever happened. Time did not move. The home, the city, the nation, and life itself were eternal; still she had a foreboding that one day, without warning and without pity, all the dear, important things would be destroyed.
