Ahh, in the mail today, another book. Glancing at my “to read” shelf I notice it has grown to three, three foot planks, that’s nine feet of books, books on or about virtually every person or subject a human, or non-human being could imagine. Who could be interested in so many diverse things? Only someone who wrote a high school essay titled: “On the Distinguishing Characteristics Between Mysticeti and Odontoceti Whales”, and another on the relevance of Ezra Pound and the structure of modern poetry, that’s who. The "why" of all this I have never been able to fathom. And this latest book, “A Gentle Madness”, to be invited into the house with all the pomp accorded royalty, or a new hybrid Azalea, I had read several years ago, most likely when it was published in 1995, but I wanted to read it again, and have the soft textured pages in my library where I could glance at the spine and touch it with the whorled, worn tips of my fingers whenever I felt like doing so. Try that with a Kindle or a NOOK!
But none of this is what I intended to say. What I wanted to do was complete my transcription of F. S. Whinkla’s diary/letter concerning his return from Texas after several months abroad. If I didn’t know him so well I’d think my leg was being pulled.