I’ve burned two books in my life and purposely abandoned one. I will start with the second book I burned, an ignominious distinction belonging to Henry Miller’s Tropic of Cancer. My wife, Maria, aware of my fascination with the written word, goes out of her way to buy any old book she comes across at thrift stores, swap meets, and estate/yard sales. She knows that I do not like new things and gravitate towards older literature. Treasures have been accumulated under this scheme. Several years...
The Noblest Dream: a retrospective on Rachel Carson’s Silent Spring
I live in mortal terror of Spring, for Spring is when the birds arrive. Those who wistfully muse on the melodic chirps and twits of songbirds are ignorant, urban idiots who have never been exposed to the cacophony-diabolique[1] that, every April, starts at 4:30 AM outside my bedroom window.
The Cacophony! I awake, grit my teeth, and pray for a day when Silence returns to Spring. As I hold the pillows around my ears in bed,...