Found 19,471 results for "Authors in fiction"
by John le Carré
The American handed Leamas another cup of coffee and said, "Why don't you go back and sleep?
by Harriet A. Jacobs
Eu nasci escrava, mas nunca soube disso até que seis anos de uma infância feliz tivessem se passado.
by Mark Haddon
It was 7 minutes after midnight.
by Edgar Allan Poe
The mental features discoursed of as the analytical, are, in themselves, but little susceptible of analysis.
by Henry James
STRETHER'S FIRST question, when he reached the hotel, was about his friend; yet on his learning that Waymarsh was appare...
by Jules Verne
MR. PHILEAS FOGG LIVED, IN 1872, AT NO. 7, SAVILLE Row, Burlington Gardens, the house in which Sheridan died in 1814.
by Daniel Defoe
IT was about the beginning of September, 1664, that I, among the rest of my neighbours, heard, in ordinary discourse, th...
by Henry David Thoreau
"As for the rest of my readers, they will accept such portions as apply to them."
by Willa Cather
I FIRST HEARD of Antonia on what seemed to me an interminable journey across the great midland plain of North America.
by William Shakespeare
Late in 1621 or early in 1622 two men brought to the son of a somewhat disreputable printer an idea that was to change t...
by Charles Dickens, Mary Sebag-Montefiore
THIRTY years ago, Marseilles lay burning in the sun, one day.
by Kate Chopin
A green and yellow parrot, which hung in a cage outside the door, kept repeating over and over: Allez vous-en!
by Victor Hugo
In 1815 Monsieur Charles-Francois-Bienvenu Myriel was Bishop of Digne.
by H. G. Wells
H. G. Wells was an astonishingly versatile and prolific writer.
by Mary Wollstonecraft
IN the present state of society it appears necessary to go back to first principles in search of the most simple truths,...
by Nathaniel Hawthorne
Nathaniel Hawthorne was born on July 4, 1804 in Salem, Massachusetts, the only son of Captain Nathaniel Hathorne and Eli...
by Charlotte Perkins Gilman
It is very seldom that mere ordinary people like John and myself secure ancestral halls for the summer.
by Gabriel García Márquez
Era inevitable: el olor de las almendras amargas le recordaba siempre el destino de los amores contrariados.