It's the birthday of the writer who said: "A man's face is his autobiography. A woman's face is her work of fiction." That's Oscar Wilde, born in Dublin (1854). He wrote just one novel, "The Picture of Dorian Gray" and in it he wrote: "All art is quite useless."
Thank for this. I was pleased to find that all three of the illustrious characters in todays TWA wrote verse, Of course it was Wildes's claim to fame. "Each man kills the thing he loves "I may have been preschool when I read it. Grass was no slouch at it and O'Neal s stuff got the musical treatment of all kinds. A good day for things versical.
As a writer with Parkinson’s disease, I thought you should know, if speed in composition is a requirement, ( assuming you are in need of a Protégé ) then I am not your candidate. Most of my writing in the last few years has been shouldered by my left thumb, on a hand held device that has largely been responsible for creating a new class of billionaires and mutual fund millionaires on the heels of free porn and the modern day hieroglyphics called emojis. Naturally, like nearly everything else in the modern world, both of the aforementioned byproducts of the cell phone age, take significantly less time to produce and are easier to procure than their predecessors.
Especially in the case of the hieroglyphics, which required a signed field trip permission slip to The Museum of Natural History, a brown bagged lunch which owing to the regal nature of the subjects to be explored in this cavernous well lit tomb, was ceremoniously purchased from the Melville Deli, and not crafted by my father or mother's Depression Era hands. My standard field trip lunch was a bologna hero, and a can of Coke wrapped in aluminum foil and placed in the freezer the night before and a package of Funny Bones by the Drake's Cakes Company. A couple of hard worked for singles from my father’s massive wallet and a few coins pulled from the collage of Bobby pins and curlers on my mother's bureau, saved me from embarrassment at the inevitable visit to the souvenir shop. And I usually selected an over priced bookmark or a colorful stone.
Being from Long Island, we were surrounded by a few wealthy enclaves, there were always well dressed and Othodentured kids with lunch boxes and haute cuisine meals made by their third world nannies, which made my working class bologna, slathered in mustard, and elevated by a few slices of Jarlesburg cheese, taste even better.
A couple of hard worked for singles from my father’s massive wallet and a few stray coins liberated from the collage of Bobby pins and curlers on my mother's bureau, saved me from embarrassment, at the inevitable visit to the souvenir shop. Where I usually purchased an over priced bookmark or a colorful stone.
In closing, to be fair, I want to acknowledge that writing with my left thumb is easier than painting with my left foot, like Christy Brown or creating one of the world's best books The Diving Bell and The Butterfly by Jean-Dominique Bauby, who had to blink when the letters to the words held silently in his mind, were uttered in French from A - Z to his uber patient stenographer.
Thank for this. I was pleased to find that all three of the illustrious characters in todays TWA wrote verse, Of course it was Wildes's claim to fame. "Each man kills the thing he loves "I may have been preschool when I read it. Grass was no slouch at it and O'Neal s stuff got the musical treatment of all kinds. A good day for things versical.
Mr. Keillor,
As a writer with Parkinson’s disease, I thought you should know, if speed in composition is a requirement, ( assuming you are in need of a Protégé ) then I am not your candidate. Most of my writing in the last few years has been shouldered by my left thumb, on a hand held device that has largely been responsible for creating a new class of billionaires and mutual fund millionaires on the heels of free porn and the modern day hieroglyphics called emojis. Naturally, like nearly everything else in the modern world, both of the aforementioned byproducts of the cell phone age, take significantly less time to produce and are easier to procure than their predecessors.
Especially in the case of the hieroglyphics, which required a signed field trip permission slip to The Museum of Natural History, a brown bagged lunch which owing to the regal nature of the subjects to be explored in this cavernous well lit tomb, was ceremoniously purchased from the Melville Deli, and not crafted by my father or mother's Depression Era hands. My standard field trip lunch was a bologna hero, and a can of Coke wrapped in aluminum foil and placed in the freezer the night before and a package of Funny Bones by the Drake's Cakes Company. A couple of hard worked for singles from my father’s massive wallet and a few coins pulled from the collage of Bobby pins and curlers on my mother's bureau, saved me from embarrassment at the inevitable visit to the souvenir shop. And I usually selected an over priced bookmark or a colorful stone.
Being from Long Island, we were surrounded by a few wealthy enclaves, there were always well dressed and Othodentured kids with lunch boxes and haute cuisine meals made by their third world nannies, which made my working class bologna, slathered in mustard, and elevated by a few slices of Jarlesburg cheese, taste even better.
A couple of hard worked for singles from my father’s massive wallet and a few stray coins liberated from the collage of Bobby pins and curlers on my mother's bureau, saved me from embarrassment, at the inevitable visit to the souvenir shop. Where I usually purchased an over priced bookmark or a colorful stone.
In closing, to be fair, I want to acknowledge that writing with my left thumb is easier than painting with my left foot, like Christy Brown or creating one of the world's best books The Diving Bell and The Butterfly by Jean-Dominique Bauby, who had to blink when the letters to the words held silently in his mind, were uttered in French from A - Z to his uber patient stenographer.
I am wild about Wilde
Who spanked the world
Like a child
For all of it's hypocrisy
And unrelenting guile
He was a man of great wit
And as I exit
I hope we can chat
For a while
Christopher J Galvin