Linda Grant
Linda Grant
================
Full Name and Common Aliases
Linda Grant is a British novelist, journalist, and broadcaster, often credited with penning The Thoughtful Dresser: Everyday Advice on Style and Elegance, among other notable works.
Birth and Death Dates
Born 10 October 1951, Linda Grant's life has been marked by an unwavering dedication to her craft.
Nationality and Profession(s)
As a British author and journalist, Linda Grant's work spans multiple genres, including memoirs, novels, and non-fiction books on style and elegance.
Early Life and Background
Growing up in Liverpool, Grant was influenced by the City's rich literary heritage. She developed an early passion for writing, which would later blossom into a successful career as a novelist and journalist. After completing her education at Liverpool University, she moved to London where she began working on various publications.
Major Accomplishments
Grant's breakthrough novel, Remind Me Again Why I Am in This Room? (2001), earned her the Orange Prize for Fiction. Her subsequent novels have been critically acclaimed and shortlisted for numerous awards, solidifying her position as a prominent figure in contemporary British literature.
Notable Works or Actions
Notable works include:
The Thoughtful Dresser: Everyday Advice on Style and Elegance
Remind Me Again Why I Am in This Room? (2001)
* Still Here (2013)
Grant has also contributed to various publications, including The Guardian, _The Times_, and _The Independent_.
Impact and Legacy
Through her writing, Grant offers insightful commentary on contemporary issues and experiences. Her novels often explore themes of identity, family relationships, and social justice.
Why They Are Widely Quoted or Remembered
Linda Grant's unique voice, coupled with her thought-provoking insights into the human experience, have cemented her place as a prominent literary figure.
Quotes by Linda Grant
But who can really remember pain? It’s impossible, you don’t remember it, you only fear it returning. These thoughts are like stitches – you see together a memory with them and the flesh heals over into a scar. The scar is the memory.
And your neihjbour is sitting next door weeping as she watches her child facing a crowd of Palestiniankids armed with rocks which could take your boy’s eye out or give him brain damage if god forbids he took off his helmet one of those dusty stones hit him in the head.
Pain itself, as a pure experience, is something different from the anxiety attached to it.
Without a physical presence on the shelves, the Kindle books seemed slightly insubstantial. There was no equivalent of the satisfying cracked spine. There was nothing to bequeath to the next generation, nothing to sell on to live a new life in someone else’s library. But at least the torrent of books that kept arriving had slowed down and there was space to walk up the stairs. I was being freed from the burden of all those bloody books.
A new dress. Is this all it takes to make a new beginning, this shred of dyed cloth, shaped into the form of a woman’s body?
What is the death of a soldier even off duty of an occupying army walking in an occupied territory against the death of a little boy screaming in terror in his father’s arms Where is the equivalence.
I am not by any stretch of the imagination a tidy person, and the piles of unread books on the coffee table and by my bed have a plaintive, pleading quality to me – ‘Read me, please!’
I’m a really hectic dreamer; I never wake up not out of a dream, and there’s loads going on, lots of action, big blockbuster dreams, they’re all major enterprises.
