Alexander Theroux
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Full Name and Common Aliases


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Alexander Theroux was born on May 21, 1939, in Boston, Massachusetts. He is also known as Alex Theroux.

Birth and Death Dates


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Born: May 21, 1939
Status: Alive

Nationality and Profession(s)


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Theroux holds American nationality and has worked as a writer, editor, and teacher throughout his career.

Early Life and Background


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Growing up in a family of artists and intellectuals, Theroux was exposed to a wide range of creative influences from an early age. His father, Paul Theroux, was a journalist and travel writer who later became famous for his novels about Africa. This exposure sparked Alexander's interest in writing and storytelling.

Theroux spent most of his childhood in Boston but also had experiences living abroad with his family. He attended the University of Massachusetts at Amherst before transferring to Yale University, where he earned his Bachelor's degree in English literature.

Major Accomplishments


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Throughout his career, Theroux has achieved numerous accolades for his writing and editing work:

He was the editor-in-chief of The Paris Review from 1967 to 1972.
Theroux has published numerous novels, short story collections, and essays, including Darconville's Cat, Honeymoon, and The Family Archive.
In addition to his creative writing, he has written biographies of notable figures like Edmund Wilson.

Notable Works or Actions


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Some of Theroux's most notable works include:

His novels are often described as darkly comedic explorations of human nature and society. For example, Darconville's Cat, a novel about a reclusive academic's life, was praised for its witty prose and insightful portrayal of the academic world.
As editor-in-chief of The Paris Review, Theroux played a crucial role in shaping the literary magazine's content and direction during its formative years.

Impact and Legacy


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Alexander Theroux has had a significant impact on contemporary literature through his innovative writing style, insightful portrayals of human nature, and contributions to the world of publishing. His work continues to be widely read and studied today:

Darconville's Cat, for instance, is often cited as an example of postmodernist fiction.
Through his role at The Paris Review, Theroux helped establish the magazine as a leading voice in American literary culture.

Why They Are Widely Quoted or Remembered


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Alexander Theroux's writing has left a lasting impression on readers and writers alike. His unique blend of wit, insight, and storytelling skill continues to inspire new generations of authors:

As a master of the short story form, his work often explores complex themes in concise, accessible ways.
* Through his roles as editor and writer, Theroux has demonstrated his commitment to shaping the literary landscape and fostering innovative voices.

Overall, Alexander Theroux's contributions to literature are undeniable. His writing continues to be widely read and studied today, offering readers a glimpse into the complexities of human nature and society.

Quotes by Alexander Theroux

Silence is the unbearable repartee.
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Silence is the unbearable repartee.
When people call up Rush Limbaugh and say, ‘It’s an honor to speak to you,’ I want to shoot myself.
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When people call up Rush Limbaugh and say, ‘It’s an honor to speak to you,’ I want to shoot myself.
Artists are never complete people. But if it’s art that completes them, then what is taken away?
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Artists are never complete people. But if it’s art that completes them, then what is taken away?
Will I have to use a dictionary to read your book?” asked Mrs. Dodypol. “It depends,” says I, “how much you used the dictionary before you read it.
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Will I have to use a dictionary to read your book?” asked Mrs. Dodypol. “It depends,” says I, “how much you used the dictionary before you read it.
Words! They seemed his only experience, his only sophistications. And yet what were they? Merciless little creatures, crowding about and eager for command, each with its own physical character, an ancestry, an expectation of life and a hope of posterity.
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Words! They seemed his only experience, his only sophistications. And yet what were they? Merciless little creatures, crowding about and eager for command, each with its own physical character, an ancestry, an expectation of life and a hope of posterity.
I’ve always admired stylists. I put the writers of bumphable, ready-to-wear prose, calculated to sell, guaranteed not to shock, in the same category as artists who can’t draw. There is a lack of bravery and a lot of fraud in them. I have tried never to write a book that didn’t attempt something new in the way of narrative technique. Writing is an assault on cliche. I find little to admire in writers who make no attempt at originality.
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I’ve always admired stylists. I put the writers of bumphable, ready-to-wear prose, calculated to sell, guaranteed not to shock, in the same category as artists who can’t draw. There is a lack of bravery and a lot of fraud in them. I have tried never to write a book that didn’t attempt something new in the way of narrative technique. Writing is an assault on cliche. I find little to admire in writers who make no attempt at originality.
It’s true, you can never eat a pet you name. And anyway, it would be like a ventriloquist eating his dummy.
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It’s true, you can never eat a pet you name. And anyway, it would be like a ventriloquist eating his dummy.
There is a terrible blindness in the love that wants only to accommodate. It’s not only to do with omissions and half-truths. It implants a lack of being in the speaker and robs the self of an identity without which it is impossible for one to grow close to another.
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There is a terrible blindness in the love that wants only to accommodate. It’s not only to do with omissions and half-truths. It implants a lack of being in the speaker and robs the self of an identity without which it is impossible for one to grow close to another.
One’s style holds one, thankfully, at bay from the enemies of it but not from the stupid crucifixions by those who must willfully misunderstand it.
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One’s style holds one, thankfully, at bay from the enemies of it but not from the stupid crucifixions by those who must willfully misunderstand it.
September: it was the most beautiful of words, he’d always felt, evoking orange-flowers, swallows, and regret.
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September: it was the most beautiful of words, he’d always felt, evoking orange-flowers, swallows, and regret.
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