Books with title The Autobiography Of A Slander

LUNA THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A SUPER CATI am an Australian Cat who has had a lot of experiences in my 4 years. In my Autobiography with 25 color pictures and over 5000 words you can admire the picture of me and my brother when we were kittens, and the other pictures of me and the people and animals in my life. Then you can meet my friends like Michael, the local mob and the kind farmer, hate my enemies like the Big Fat Ugly Dog, the Bad Man and the Satanic Cat and laugh at the strange ideas of the enigmatic Bad Boy. Michael says that if anyone buys my books the money will pay for some nice cat food. In this book I meet my famous father. You can share both my joy and triumphs and grieve with me at the tragic events of my young life.This book was written before I became a detective helping the police catch criminals. I hope young children will enjoy my autobiography.

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At the end of the 19th Century W.H.Davies hustled his way across America, working when he could, begging and stealing when he couldn't. He saw life on the breadline. He was beaten up in New Orleans, thrown into prison in Michigan and was present at lynching's in Tennessee, truly a diarist of the nether side of the American dream. After travelling with some of the most interesting and adventurous characters, an accident forced him to return to a similar poverty filled world back in England. "The incorrigible Super-tramp who wrote this amazing book. I have read it through from beginning to end, and would have read more of it had there been any more to read." George Bernard Shaw.

It seems excessive…but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.The mass of black curls. The top hat. The cigarette dangling from pouty lips. These are the trademarks of one of the world’s greatest and most revered guitarists, a celebrity musician known by one name: Slash.Saul “Slash” Hudson was born in Hampstead to a Jewish father and a black American mother who created David Bowie’s look in The Man Who Fell to Earth. He was raised in Stoke until he was 11, when he and his mother moved to LA. Frequent visitors to the house were David Bowie, Joni Mitchell, Ronnie Wood and Iggy Pop.At this time Slash got into BMX bikes and would eventually turn professional, winning major awards and money, but at 15 his grandmother gave him his first guitar. Sessions with numerous local LA rock bands followed until a fateful meeting with singer W Axl Rose…and the rest was rock history. Guns N’ Roses spent two years builiding their reputation before Appetite for Destruction was unleashed on an unsuspecting world.Chart success and global domination followed but with it came the inevitable fall – addicted to heroin, booze and cigarettes the band imploded in a rift between Axl and Slash that is as deep today as ever. But with a new wife, kids and new band Velvet Revolver, Slash is back on track. As raucous and edgy as his music, Slash sets the record straight and tells the real story as only Slash can.

HASTEN to protest at the outset that I have no personal knowledge of the incorrigible Super-tramp who wrote this amazing book. If he is to be encouraged and approved, then British morality is a mockery, British respectability an imposture, and British industry a vice. Perhaps they are: I have always kept an open mind on the subject; but still one may ask some better ground for pitching them out of window than the caprice of a tramp.I hope these expressions will not excite unreasonable expectations of a thrilling realistic romance, or a scandalous chronicle, to follow. Mr. Davies' autobiography is not a bit sensational: it might be the Post Office Directory for the matter of that. A less simple minded supertramp would not have thought it worth writing at all; for it mentions nothing that might not have happened to any of us. As to scandal, I, though a most respectable author, have never written half so proper a book. These pudent pages are unstained with the frightful language, the debased dialect, of the fictitious proletarians of Mr. Rudyard Kipling and other genteel writers. In them the patrons of the casual ward and the dosshouse argue with the decorum of Socrates, and narrate in the style of Tacitus. They have that pleasant combination of childish freshness with scrupulous literary conscientiousness only possible to people for whom speech, spoken or written, but especially written, is still a feat to be admired and shewn off for its own sake. Not for the life of me could I capture that boyish charm and combine it with the savoir vivre of an experienced man of the world, much less of an experienced tramp. The innocence of the author's manner and the perfection of his delicacy is such, that you might read his book aloud in an almshouse without shocking the squeamishness of old age. As for the young, nothing shocks the young. The immorality of the matter is stupendous; but it is purely an industrial immorality. As to the sort of immorality that is most dreaded by schoolmistresses and duennas, there is not a word in the book to suggest that tramps know even what it means. On the contrary, I can quite believe that the author would die of shame if he were asked to write such books as Adam Bede or David Copperfield.