As alluded to earlier in the last post, today (and for that matter yesterday) has managed to be swallowed up in the blast radius of a giant pulse bomb known as “circumstances.” Take that to mean work, the day, the hours, the nature of the beast . . . whatever.
I was going to drive over to the local Barnes & Noble and start asking for books that aren’t even in existence, but I think I am too tired. I feel like I have Mononucleosis or something.
I did go over to the public library, waded my way through the “homeless with a smartphone” contingent, headed upstairs and found a couple of cool books about CS Lewis.
I sincerely want to write a book on the man. But wow. One has to get up really early to know more about that guy than the people that are already nursing a healthy obsession with the man now.
Speaking of which. Mark Twain was,at one time, my favorite author. The problem with discussing Lewis or Twain with any of my friends is–they only have cursory knowledge of either. So lewis becomes the guy that “wrote the book about Narnia that Disney filmed,” and Twain becomes the guy that used the pejorative N-Word in Huckleberry Finn.
And yes. Huckleberry Finn is perhaps the true flashpoint for American literature. Stand down, shallow denizen of the rock. The use of the word in the book is the greatest tool for arguing against using it now. It was literally like the imprecatory phrase all men are created equal–both create the inertia for ultimate truths that would follow later.
But if I have to choose a favorite work, It’s The Innocents Abroad–Twain’s pilgrimage to Europe, and the Holy Land. I have a 113-year-old copy on my shelf. If I ever get rich enough to own one with an autograph in it, I will. (though I did manage to get prolific actor, Hal Holbrook, the greatest performing impersonator of Twain in the world to sign the one I do have)
And of COURSE blogging will provide that windfall. I can feel it.
Box Number Seven 