James Gould Cozzens

James Gould Cozzens’s Followers (28)

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James Gould Cozzens


Born
in Chicago, IL, The United States
August 19, 1903

Died
August 09, 1978

Genre


Pulitzer Prize for Fiction for Guard of Honor in 1949

Average rating: 3.45 · 1,743 ratings · 173 reviews · 84 distinct worksSimilar authors
Guard of Honor

3.44 avg rating — 1,266 ratings — published 1948 — 32 editions
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By Love Possessed

3.12 avg rating — 132 ratings — published 1957 — 40 editions
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The Just And The Unjust: A ...

3.83 avg rating — 69 ratings — published 1942 — 17 editions
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Castaway

3.30 avg rating — 80 ratings — published 1934 — 18 editions
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Men and Brethren

3.77 avg rating — 26 ratings — published 1936 — 6 editions
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S. S. San Pedro

3.33 avg rating — 27 ratings — published 1930 — 20 editions
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The Last Adam

3.69 avg rating — 16 ratings — published 1933 — 11 editions
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Ask Me Tomorrow, or, The Pl...

3.75 avg rating — 8 ratings — published 1940 — 3 editions
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Children and Others

4.40 avg rating — 5 ratings — published 1964 — 2 editions
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Just Representations: A Jam...

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really liked it 4.00 avg rating — 3 ratings — published 1978 — 4 editions
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More books by James Gould Cozzens…
Quotes by James Gould Cozzens  (?)
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“The innocent supposition, entertained by most people, that even if they are not brilliant, they are not dumb, is correct only in a very relative sense.”
James Gould Cozzens, The Just And The Unjust: A Gripping Crime Mystery – Classic Police Drama in a Small-Town Murder Trial

“About his madmen Mr. Lecky was no more certain. He knew less than the little to be learned of the causes or even of the results of madness. Yet for practical purposes one can imagine all that is necessary. As long as maniacs walk like men, you must come close to them to penetrate so excellent a disguise. Once close, you have joined the true werewolf.

Pick for your companion a manic-depressive, afflicted by any of the various degrees of mania - chronic, acute, delirious. Usually more man than wolf, he will be instructive. His disorder lies in the very process of his thinking, rather than in the content of his thought. He cannot wait a minute for the satisfaction of his fleeting desires or the fulfillment of his innumerable schemes. Nor can he, for two minutes, be certain of his intention or constant in any plan or agreement. Presently you may hear his failing made manifest in the crazy concatenation of his thinking aloud, which psychiatrists call "flight of ideas." Exhausted suddenly by this
riotous expense of speech and spirit, he may subside in an apathy dangerous and morose, which you will be well advised not to disturb.

Let the man you meet be, instead, a paretic. He has taken a secret departure from your world. He dwells amidst choicest, most dispendious superlatives. In his arm he has the strength to lift ten elephants. He is already two hundred years old. He is more than nine feet high; his chest is of iron, his right leg is silver, his incomparable head is one whole ruby. Husband of a thousand wives, he has begotten on them ten thousand children. Nothing is mean about him; his urine is white wine; his faeces are always soft gold. However, despite his splendor and his extraordinary attainments, he cannot successfully pronounce the words: electricity, Methodist Episcopal, organization, third cavalry brigade. Avoid them. Infuriated by your demonstration of any accomplishment not his, he may suddenly kill you.

Now choose for your friend a paranoiac, and beware of the wolf! His back is to the wall, his implacable enemies are crowding on him. He gets no rest. He finds no starting hole to hide him. Ten times oftener than the Apostle, he has been, through the violence of the unswerving malice which pursues him, in perils of waters, in perils of robbers, in perils of his own countrymen, in perils by the heathen, in perils in the city, in perils in the wilderness, in perils in the sea, in perils among false brethren, in weariness and painfulness, in watchings often, in hunger and thirst, in fastings often, in cold and nakedness. Now that, face to face with him, you simulate innocence and come within his reach, what pity can you expect? You showed him none; he will certainly not show you any.

Lighten our darkness, we beseech thee, 0 Lord; and by thy great mercy defend us from all the perils and dangers of this night; for the love of thy only Son, our Saviour, Jesus Christ. Amen.

Mr. Lecky's maniacs lay in wait to slash a man's head half off, to perform some erotic atrocity of disembowelment on a woman. Here, they fed thoughtlessly on human flesh; there, wishing to play with him, they plucked the mangled Tybalt from his shroud. The beastly cunning of their approach, the fantastic capriciousness of their intention could not be very well met or provided for. In his makeshift fort everywhere encircled by darkness, Mr. Lecky did not care to meditate further on the subject.”
James Gould Cozzens, Castaway

“Moving on, while he wondered, the dark through which Mr. Lecky's light cut grew more beautiful with scents. Particles of solid matter so minute, gases so subtle, that they filtered through stopping and sealing, hung on the unstirred air. Drawn in with Mr. Lecky's breath came impalpable dews cooked out of disintegrating coal. Distilled, chemically split and reformed, they ended in flawless simulation of the aromas of gums, the scent of woods and the world's flowers. The chemists who made them could do more than that. Loose on the gloom were perfumes of flowers which might possibly have bloomed but never had, and the strong-smelling saps of trees either lost or not yet evolved.

Mixed in the mucus of the pituitary membrane, these volatile essences meant more than synthetic chemistry to Mr. Lecky. Their microscopic slime coated the bushed-out ends of the olfactory nerve; their presence was signaled to the anterior of the brain's temporal lobe. At once, thought waited on them, tossing down from the great storehouse of old images, neglected ideas - sandalwood and roses, musk and lavender. Mr. Lecky stood still, wrung by pangs as insistent and unanswerable as hunger. He was prodded by the unrest of things desired, not had; the surfeit of things had, not desired. More than anything he could see, or words, or sounds, these odors made him stupidly aware of the past. Unable to remember it, whence he was, or where he had previously been, all that was sweet, impermanent and gone came back not spoiled by too much truth or exact memory. Volatile as the perfumes, the past stirred him with longing for what was not - the only beloved beauty which you will have to see but which you may not keep.

Mr. Lecky's beam of light went through glass top and side of a counter, displayed bottles of colored liquid - straw, amber, topaz - threw shadows behind their diverse shapes. He had no use for perfume. All the distraction, all the sense of loss and implausible sweetness which he felt was in memory of women.

Behind the counter, Mr. Lecky, curious, took out bottles, sniffed them, examined their elaborately varied forms - transparent squares, triangles, cones, flattened ovals. Some were opaque, jet or blue, rough with embedded metals in intricate design. This great and needless decoration of the flasks which contained it was one strange way to express the inexpressible. Another way was tried in the names put on the bottles. Here words ran the suggestive or symbolic gamut of idealized passion, or festive night, of desired caresses, or of abstractions of the painful allure yet farther fetched.

Not even in the hopeful, miracle-raving fancy of those who used the perfumes could a bottle of liquid have any actual magic. Since the buyers at the counters must be human beings, nine of every ten were beyond this or other help. Women, young, but unlovely and unloved, women, whatever they had been, now at the end of it and ruined by years or thickened to caricature by fat, ought to be the ones called to mind by perfume. But they were not. Mr. Lecky held the bottle in his hand a long while, aware of the tenth woman.”
James Gould Cozzens

Polls

1st Quarter 2018 Long Read Poll

Ulysses by James Joyce, 1922, 810 pages
 
  69 votes, 20.0%

David Copperfield by Charles Dickens, 1849, 974 pages
 
  67 votes, 19.4%

The Arabian Nights, 800, 1049 pages
 
  46 votes, 13.3%

 
  41 votes, 11.9%

 
  24 votes, 7.0%

Lonesome Dove by Larry McMurtry, 1985, 945 pages
 
  19 votes, 5.5%

Sons and Lovers by D.H. Lawrence, 1913, 654 pages
 
  19 votes, 5.5%

 
  14 votes, 4.1%

The Decameron by Giovanni Boccaccio, 1353, 909 pages
 
  14 votes, 4.1%

Twenty Years After by Alexandre Dumas, 1845, 788 pages
 
  10 votes, 2.9%

 
  6 votes, 1.7%

From Here to Eternity by James Jones, 1951, 816 pages
 
  6 votes, 1.7%

 
  6 votes, 1.7%

Guard of Honor by James Gould Cozzens, 1948, 614 pages
 
  2 votes, 0.6%

 
  2 votes, 0.6%

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