Biography of Tennessee Williams
Thomas Lanier "Tennessee" Williams III (March 26, 1911 – February 25, 1983) was an American playwright and author of many stage classics. Along with Eugene O'Neill and Arthur Miller he is considered among the three foremost playwrights in 20th-century American drama.
After years of obscurity, he became suddenly famous with The Glass Menagerie (1944), closely reflecting his own unhappy family background. This heralded a string of successes, including A Streetcar Named Desire (1947), Cat on a Hot Tin Roof (1955), and Sweet Bird of Youth (1959). His later work attempted a new style that did not appeal to audiences, and alcohol and drug dependence further inhibited his creative output. His drama A Streetcar Named Desire is often numbered on the short list of the finest American plays of the 20th century alongside Long Day's Journey into Night and Death of a Salesman.
Much of Williams' most acclaimed work was adapted for the cinema. He also wrote short stories, poetry, essays and a volume of memoirs. In 1979, four years before his death, Williams was inducted into the American Theater Hall of Fame.
Tennessee Williams Poems
The wine-drinkers sit on the porte cochère in the sun. Their lack of success in love has made them torpid. They move their fans with a motion that stirs no feather, the glare of the sun has darkened their complexions.
I am tired. I am tired of speech and of action. If you should meet me upon the street do not question me for
My feet took a walk in heavenly grass. All day while the sky shone clear as glass. My feet took a walk in heavenly grass,
My Little One
My little one whose tongue is dumb, whose fingers cannot hold to things, who is so mercilessly young, he leaps upon the instant things,
After you've been to bed together for the first time, without the advantage or disadvantage of any prior acquaintance, the other party very often says to you,
We Have Not Long To Love
We have not long to love. Light does not stay. The tender things are those
The Soft City
Eastward the city with scarcely even a murmur turns in the soft dusk, the lights of it blur,
Androgyne, Mon Amour
Androgyne, mon amour, brochette de coeur was plat du jour, (heart lifted on a metal skewer,
Androgyne, Mon Amour
Androgyne, mon amour,
brochette de coeur was plat du jour,
(heart lifted on a metal skewer,
encore saignante et palpitante)
where I dined au solitaire,
table intime, one rose vase,
lighted dimly, wildly gay,
as, punctually, across the bay
mist advanced its pompe funèbre,