Laurie Lee
Full Name and Common Aliases
Laurie Lee was a British poet, novelist, and screenwriter, commonly known by his pen name.
Birth and Death Dates
Lee was born on July 26, 1914, in the village of Slad, Gloucestershire, England. He passed away on May 13, 1999, at the age of 84.
Nationality and Profession(s)
Born British, Lee was a poet, novelist, screenwriter, and autobiographer. His writing career spanned over six decades, with various genres including poetry, fiction, non-fiction, and drama.
Early Life and Background
Growing up in Slad, a small village in the Cotswolds, had a profound impact on Lee's work. The beauty of the surrounding countryside and the rhythms of rural life deeply influenced his writing. His childhood experiences, particularly those related to nature, family, and social class, would later shape his literary themes.
Lee was educated at Stroud Grammar School before attending the Slade School of Fine Art in London for a brief period. However, it was during World War II that he began to develop his skills as a writer, penning essays and short stories for various publications.
Major Accomplishments
Laurie Lee's most notable achievement is arguably his autobiography, _Cider with Rosie_, published in 1959. The book offers an affectionate portrayal of rural England during the early 20th century, drawing heavily from Lee's own childhood experiences.
The novel _As I Walked Out One Midsummer Morning_ (1969) is another significant work by Lee, exploring themes of love, loss, and self-discovery. His poetry collections, such as _Rural Dialects_ (1947) and _I Can Never Remember My Dreams_ (1958), showcase his mastery of lyrical language.
Notable Works or Actions
Lee's writing often focused on the human condition, drawing from his experiences in rural England. His stories frequently explored themes related to love, family, social class, and the changing times. He was known for his poetic prose style, which blended vivid descriptions with a strong sense of place and history.
Lee's literary output also extended to radio dramas and television scripts, demonstrating his versatility as a writer.
Impact and Legacy
Laurie Lee's contributions to British literature have been widely recognized. His writing often serves as a nostalgic portrayal of rural England during the 20th century. Critics praise him for his unique voice, rich descriptions, and nuanced exploration of human relationships.
Lee was appointed an Officer of the Order of the British Empire (OBE) in 1997 for his services to literature. He died two years later, leaving behind a body of work that continues to captivate readers with its vivid imagery and profound insights into the human experience.
Why They Are Widely Quoted or Remembered
Laurie Lee's quotes often touch on themes related to nature, love, family, and social class. His writing style, which combines poetic language with a strong sense of place, has made him one of the most beloved British authors of his time. Readers continue to find solace in his stories, poems, and essays, which offer a profound understanding of what it means to be human.
Lee's legacy extends beyond his written works; he also left an impact on contemporary literature through his advocacy for the preservation of rural culture and his commitment to authentic storytelling. His work remains widely read and studied today, offering a unique perspective on England's rich history and its people.
Quotes by Laurie Lee
Laurie Lee's insights on:
I shared a compartment with a half-dozen muffled-up soldiers who had only arrived the day before, including an ill-favoured young Catalan whose pox-pitted cheeks sprouted stubble like a grave in May.
And as I lay there listening, with the sun filtering across me, I thought this was how it should always be. To be charmed from sleep by a voice like this, eased softly back into life, rather than by the customary brutalities of shouts, knocking, and alarm-bells like blows on the head. The borders of consciousness are anxious enough, raw and desperate places; we shouldn’t be dragged across them like struggling thieves as if sleep was a felony.
Dorothy scratched her dark head, yawning wide, and white feathers floated out of her hair.
So with the family gone, Mother lived as she wished... Slowly, snugly, she grew into her background, warm on her grassy bank, poking and peering among the flowery bushes, dishevelled and bright as they. Serenely unkempt were those final years, free from conflict, doubt or dismay, while she reverted gently to a rustic simplicity as a moss-rose reverts to a wild one.
But spring in England is like a prolonged adolescence, stumbling, sweet and slow, a thing of infinitesimal shades, false starts, expectations, deferred hopes, and final showers of glory.
A wasting memory is not only a destroyer; it can deny one’s very existence. A day unremembered is like a soul unborn, worse than if it had never been. What indeed was that summer if it is not recalled? That journey? That act of love? To whom did it happen if it has left you with nothing? Certainly not to you. So any bits of warm life preserved by the pen are trophies snatched from the dark, are branches of leaves fished out of the flood, are tiny arrests of mortality.
Eulalia turned and smiled at me brilliantly, showing her tongue, her face cracking open like a brown snake’s egg hatching.
Night odours come drifting from woods and gardens; sweet musks and sharp green acids. In the sky the fat stars bounce up and down, rhythmically, as we trudge along. Glow-worms, brighter than lamps or candles, spike the fields with their lemon fires, while huge horned beetles stumble out of the dark and buzz blindly around our heads.
The borders of consciousness are anxious enough, raw and desperate places; we shouldn’t be dragged across them like struggling thieves as if sleep was a felony.
Eight to ten loaves came to the house every day, and they never grew dry. We tore them to pieces with their crusts still warm, and their monotony was brightened by the objects we found in them – string, nails, paper, and once a mouse; for those were days of happy-go-lucky baking.