There is no delight like the one you get when you unexpectedly find some long-lost object you thought was gone for good.  Earlier today Someone was cleaning out clothes drawers only to discover behind the sweatshirts lay a couple of boxes. I had concluded I discarded them a long time ago. I opened up the lid and lo! There they were! Five little figurines Mother gave me for a birthday prize many years ago. Fascinating.  I thought of them a few weeks ago, wondering how on earth I would throw them out. And here they are. What a lovely reunion.


Mark Twain has always been one of my favorite writers. My favorite Twain quotation comes from when he asked Helen Keller if she was happy in her world. Yes, Mr. Twain, I am. “Helen, (he replied) out here in our world happy people are as rare as white black birds in hell.”  What a wit.


Mother (bless her heart) doesn’t really understand what I do for a living. She got me a Sigmund Freud on the grounds I must want one.  In his defense, Her Doctor was an excellent writer. I’ve had him in English; I’ve had him in German. Both are splendid prose.



I am not a big ‘Poe’ fan. Mother assumed since I like writers I must enjoy Edgar A. Poe.


Oscar Wilde remains a witty and compassionate writer. I can imagine Mr. Twain and Mr. Wilde having quite the stichomythia over whisky and cigars.


Leading the merry pack of penmen is Charles Dickens, AKA Boz, AKA Spo’s main man of literature. He is a dear. Please don’t feed him buns and things.