Inscribed on the Temple of Poseidon at Cape Sounion, southeast of Athens, is the name BYRON. Possibly the poet carved it during his first visit to Greece at age 22, before he became famous. He later wrote:

Place me on Sunium’s marbled steep,
Where nothing, save the waves and I,
May hear our mutual murmurs sweep …

But there’s no definite evidence that he carved it himself.

In 1998, Walter Hooper, literary advisor of the estate of C.S. Lewis, was asked to summarize the legacy of Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien:

Above all, they were both aware that the type of books they were writing were the type of books they liked to read. As Lewis said on one occasion: ‘I wrote the sort of books I did because they were the sort of books I would have liked to have read when I was growing up.’ When Lewis came across The Hobbit when it was being written he was delighted. This was not only the sort of book he would have liked to have read, but also the sort of book he would like to write. …

They were very honest men. They were not writing to be avant garde. They were writing books that they liked. They, after all, had jobs which left them free so they weren’t depending on writing stories that would sell. In some respects, Tolkien was reluctant to send his work to a publisher so you can hardly call him ambitious for that type of success. They merely wrote the sort of books that they liked which turns out to be the sort of books that many other people like.

From Joseph Pearce, ed., Tolkien — A Celebration: Collected Writings on a Literary Legacy, 2001. Of Middle-earth, Tolkien wrote in a letter, “I had the sense of recording what was already ‘there,’ somewhere; not of ‘inventing.'”

Immediately below the light room of Scotland’s Bell Rock lighthouse was a library. Writer R.M. Ballantyne spent two weeks there in 1865:

[I]t is a most comfortable and elegant apartment. The other rooms of the lighthouse, although thoroughly substantial in their furniture and fittings, are quite plain and devoid of ornament, but the library, or ‘stranger’s room’, as it is sometimes called, being the guest-chamber, is fitted up in a style worthy of a lady’s boudoir, with a Turkey carpet, handsome chairs, and an elaborately carved oak table, supported appropriately by a centre stem of three twining dolphins. The dome of the ceiling is painted to represent stucco panelling, and the partition which cuts off the small segment of this circular room that is devoted to passage and staircase, is of panelled oak. The thickness of this partition is just sufficient to contain the bookcase; also a cleverly contrived bedstead, which can be folded up during the day out of sight. There is also a small cupboard of oak, which serves the double purpose of affording shelf accommodation and concealing the iron smoke-pipe which rises from the kitchen, and, passing through the several storeys, projects a few feet above the lantern. The centre window is ornamented with marble sides and top, and above it stands a marble bust of Robert Stevenson, the engineer of the building, with a marble slab below bearing testimony to the skill and energy with which he had planned and executed the work.

Stevenson, perhaps fittingly, was the grandfather of Robert Louis Stevenson.

(From R.M. Ballantyne, The Lighthouse, 1865.)