Geboortedatum: 1873-03-28
Overlijdensdatum: 1935-07-19
Geslacht: female
Nationaliteit: USA
UK
Geboorteplaats: Englewood, New Jersey, USA
Plaats van overlijden: Hampstead, London, England, UK
Woonplaatsen: Irvington-on-Hudson, New York, USA
London, England, UK
Paris, France
Cotswolds, England, UK
Beroepen: writer
novelist
Relaties: Sélincourt, Basil De (husband)
Organisaties: National Institute of Arts and Letters (Literature ∙ 1931)
Korte biografie: Anne Douglas Sedgwick was born in Englewood, New Jersey, but moved at age nine with her family to England, where she lived for the rest of her life. In 1898, her father arranged the publication of The Dull Miss Archinard, a novel she had written for amusement, and it launched her writing career. She married Basil de Sélincourt, a journalist and essayist, in 1908. During World War I, she and her husband worked as volunteers in hospitals and orphanages in France. Her writing often explored the contrast in values between Americans and Europeans and was highly popular in its day. Four of her books were on the New York Times bestseller lists for 1912, 1924, 1927, and 1929. Her novel Tante (1912), her first major success, was adapted into a 1919 film called The Impossible Woman, and The Little French Girl (1924) was made into a 1925 film of the same name. She also wrote some nonfiction, including A Childhood in Brittany Eighty Years Ago (1919). In 1931, she was elected to the National Institute of Arts and Letters in the USA. After her death, her husband published Anne Douglas Sedgwick: A Portrait in Letters.

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The Shadow of Life door Anne Douglas Sedgwick

The Shadow of Life
ELSPETH GIFFORD was five years old when she went to live at Kirklands. Her father, an army officer, died in her babyhood, and her mother a few years later. The uncle and aunts in Scotland, all three much her mother’s seniors, were the child’s nearest relatives.
To such a little girl death had meant no more than a bewildered loneliness, but the bewilderment was so sharp, the loneliness so aching, that she cried herself into an illness. She had seen her dead mother, the sweet, sightless, silent face, familiar yet amazing, and more than any fear or shrinking had been the suffocating mystery of feeling herself forgotten and left behind. Her uncle Nigel, sorrowful and grave, but so large and kind that his presence seemed to radiate a restoring warmth, came to London for her and a fond nurse went with her to the North, and after a few weeks the anxious affection of her aunts Rachel and Barbara built about her, again, a child’s safe universe of love.
Kirklands was a large white house and stood on a slope facing south, backed by a rise of thickly wooded hill and overlooking a sea of heathery moorland. It was a solitary but not a melancholy house. Lichens yellowed the high-pitched slate roof and creepers clung to the roughly “harled” walls. On sunny days the long rows of windows were golden squares in the illumined white, and, under a desolate winter sky, glowed with an inner radiance.… (meer)

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amzmchaichun | Jul 20, 2013 |

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