Who is William Dean Howells

William Dean Howells (; March 1, 1837 – May 11, 1920) was an American realist novelist, literary critic, and playwright, nicknamed "The Dean of American Letters". He was particularly known for his tenure as editor of The Atlantic Monthly, as well as for his own prolific writings, including the Christmas story "Christmas Every Day" and the novels The Rise of Silas Lapham and A Traveler from Altruria.


Early life and family

William Dean Howells was born on March 1, 1837, in Martinsville, Ohio (now known as Martins Ferry, Ohio), to William Cooper Howells and Mary Dean Howells, the second of eight children. His father was a newspaper editor and printer who moved frequently around Ohio. In 1840, the family settled in Hamilton, Ohio, where his ...
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William Dean Howells Poems

  • Earliest Spring
    Tossing his mane of snows in wildest eddies and tangles,
    Lion-like March cometh in, hoarse, with tempestuous breath,
    Through all the moaning chimneys, and ‘thwart all the hollows and angles
    Round the shuddering house, threating of winter and death....
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Top 10 most used topics by William Dean Howells

Winter 1 March 1 Door 1 Sense 1 Moment 1 Deep 1 Shadow 1 Earth 1 Rapture 1 Desire 1

William Dean Howells Quotes

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Comments about William Dean Howells

Etechne: for my fellow lentventurers: william dean howells, jean-léon gérome, matthew s. nelson and dan haseltine, and ruby amanfu.
Runningmeows: "the action is best that secures the greatest happiness for the greatest number." -william dean howells, american - author (1837-1920)
Rbrookhiser: he wrote the secret of swedenborg. william dean howells quipped, "he kept it."
Rbrookhiser: 35th. it was a block away from nr's old offices. nb william james sr. wrote a book the secret of swedenborg. william dean howells commented, "he kept it."
Rgtrendsetter: wisdom and goodness are twin-born, one heart must hold both sisters, never seen apart.-william dean howells ralphgail teenclashscreening
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Poem of the day

Robert Service Poem
 by Robert Service

Heaven's mighty sweet, I guess;
Ain't no rush to git there:
Been a sinner, more or less;
Maybe wouldn't fit there.
Wicked still, bound to confess;
Might jest pine a bit there.

Heaven's swell, the preachers say:

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