Margaret Kennedy

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Biography

Margaret Kennedy was an English novelist and playwright.She attended Cheltenham Ladies' College, where she began writing, and then went up to Somerville College, Oxford in 1915 to read history. Her first publication was a history book, A Century of Revolution (1922). Margaret Kennedy was married to the barrister David Davies. They had a son and two daughters, one of whom was the novelist Julia Birley. The novelist Serena Mackesy is her grand-daughter.

  • Primary profession
  • Writer
  • Country
  • United Kingdom
  • Nationality
  • British
  • Gender
  • Female
  • Birth date
  • 23 April 1896
  • Place of birth
  • London
  • Death date
  • 1967-07-31
  • Death age
  • 71
  • Place of death
  • United Kingdom
  • Residence
  • Linlithgow
  • Children
  • Andrew Stewart·
  • Spouses
  • David Kennedy
  • Education
  • Somerville College· Oxford
  • Knows language
  • English language
  • Member of
  • Universal Esperanto Association
  • Parents
  • Alexander Kennedy

Movies

Books

Awards

Trivia

Playwright.

Widow of David Davies.

Oxford-educated English sentimental novelist and playwright, the daughter of a barrister. Best known for "The Constant Nymph" and "Escape Me Never", both of which became popular material for Hollywood screenplays. Another of her fifteen novels, "Troy Chimneys" (1952), was recipient of the James Tait Black Memorial Prize for 1953.

Daughter is novelist Julia Birley.

Quotes

When they got to their hotel she went straight up to bed, but he paused to get a drink. There was, in the vestibule, a flower stall and he bought a handful of roses, stiffly wired into a bouquet, before proceeding to the oppressive gorgeousness of their bridal suite. The lift was lined with looking glass, so that as he shot upwards he got an endlessly duplicated version of himself, stout and nervous, a light cloak flung over his shoulder and flowers in his hand: an infinitely long row of gentlemen carrying offerings to an unforgiving past.

He became so gloomy that she asked him, at last, if he was worried about anything. He assured her, instantly, that he was the happiest man in the world. And he was. At times he was almost bewildered by his own bliss in being there, with Tony, so terribly dear, beside him; really his own for the rest of his life. It was not her fault if the insatiable sorrows of an unequal love tormented him, the hungry demand for more, for a fuller return, for a feeling which it was not in her nature to give. As she leaned forward, absorbed in the passions staged beneath her, he felt suddenly that their box contained just himself and a wraith, a ghost; as if the real Antonia, whom he loved, was an imagined woman living only in his sad fancy. .

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