Grip, the talking raven in Dickens’ Barnaby Rudge, was based on a real bird, a pet who lived in the family’s Marylebone home, where she buried items in the garden, terrorized the dog, bit the children, and tore at the family carriage. She died in 1841 after ingesting some lead-based paint, and Dickens wrote her into the novel, which appeared later that year.

Interestingly, when Edgar Allan Poe reviewed the story for Graham’s Magazine, he remarked that “The raven … might have been made more than we see it … Its croaking might have been prophetically heard in the course of the drama.” In 1842, when the two authors met in Philadelphia, Poe was said to be “delighted” that Grip had been based on a real bird.

Poe’s famous poem appeared three years later, and scholars generally agree that Grip had inspired the “ebony bird” — in Dickens’ novel the raven had repeated the phrases “Never say die” and “Nobody” and is described as “tapping at the door” and “knocking softly at the shutter.”

Today Grip’s remains are on display in Philadelphia’s Parkway Central Library, where they may inspire yet more writings.

Then there is the other secret. There isn’t any symbolysm. The sea is the sea. The old man is an old man. The boy is a boy and the fish is a fish. The shark are all sharks no better and no worse. All the symbolism that people say is shit. What goes beyond is what you see beyond when you know. A writer should know too much.

— Ernest Hemingway, letter to Bernard Berenson, 1952

As a footnote to the above, I would like to say that I am getting very tired of literary authorities, on both the stage and the screen, who advise young writers to deal only with those subjects that happen to be familiar to them personally. It is quite true that this theory probably produced A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, but the chances are it would have ruled out Hamlet.

— Wolcott Gibbs, New Yorker, January 6, 1945

One summer afternoon in 1932, William Faulkner and his wife Estelle were sitting on the side porch of their home in Oxford, Mississippi.

She said, “Does it ever seem to you that the light in August is different from any other time of the year?”

He said, “That’s it!”, disappeared into the house, and returned a moment later.

“What he had done was to go to his worktable and draw four pen strokes through the title ‘Dark House,'” Estelle wrote later. “Above and slightly to the left he printed ‘Light in August.'”

Much blood has … been spilled on the carpet in attempts to distinguish between science fiction and fantasy. I have suggested an operational definition: science fiction is something that could happen — but usually you wouldn’t want it to. Fantasy is something that couldn’t happen — though often you only wish that it could.

— Arthur C. Clarke, foreword, The Collected Stories of Arthur C. Clarke, 2000