I loved reading Molly Ivins’ articles and especially liked her book Molly Ivins Can’t Say That, Can She?
And although I didn’t know her personally, reading the biography about her in Molly Ivins A Rebel Life by Bill Minutaglio and W. Michael Smith, I miss her even more.
An excerpt from the book:
In France, for the first time, she was beginning to tinker with writing about people in power–and doing it by zooming down from the hovering sweep, the historical panorama, and making a crash landing on the high-and-mighty. It seemed too overtly intellectual, and full of shit, to do so in a droning, preachy, academic way. It wasn’t really complex: She wanted to write the way she talked. Like Holland, she’d suffer no fools; like her father she’d work like a dog; like her mother she’d roll with the absurdity.
She also read, constantly, and it informed her search for a style, a voice: John Steinbeck’s Travels with Charley. Rachel Carson’s Silent Spring. James Baldwin’s The Fire Next Time. Theodore White’s The Making of a President. She told people she loved Thor Heyerdahl and his book about rafting the Pacific, Kon Tiki. And she wrote more and more, filling up her notebooks with indecipherable handwriting, exclamation points, and doodles of dandies and clerics and fools. She also grew more comfortable holding forth in public, dominating the discourse. In France, strangers would look at the looming American, and she knew they were staring and she wold start jabbering in French. Then she would start talking with a Texas twang. Then she would use some Upper East Coast Smith inflections. And then she would start laughing. She told friends she still felt physically awkward, but rarely intellectually intimated. The goal, too, hadn’t changed–it was the same goal she had written down on a piece of paper and put in her wallet back in high school. “She always wanted to be famous,” said one close friend.