Why are people so concerned with a few hundred thousand dollars when I have uncovered the secrets of the universe?

There should be a punctuation mark for irony. Actually, there is. Or rather, there are several. But I don’t think my word processing program is familiar with them, so I never use them. But you can see how such a thing could be useful, especially in electronic communications, like email and text messages.

Everybody, and I mean everybody, or least, everybody who was anybody to having pretensions of intellectualism and were also under age twenty-five, none of which is intended as a knock on the book, had this book back in the early nineties. And probably before that, too, but frankly, I wouldn’t have known if they did. I mean, sure, I probably saw some of the shelves and was intrigued, with a cover like an oversized science fiction novel, but I really couldn’t have made any reasonable generalizations at the time.

I had no idea that Fanny Howe and Susan Howe were sisters. I love Fanny Howe and am always frustrated at how difficult it is to find her work. On the shelves where I had hoped to find Fanny was, instead, a poetry collection by Susan, instead. But knowing they are sisters doesn’t make it any less frustrating that the only bookstore in DC that seems to stock Fanny’s poetry is Bridestreet Books, which makes sense, seeing as they have, hands down, the best poetry selection… well, anywhere I’ve seen. And that includes the estimable Skylight Books in Los Angeles and even the serpentine stacks of the Strand in New York.

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