lambasting the poor and ignorant of Nebraskashire was not cruel because I, despite my now elevated rank, was once so afflicted. therefore, I could astutely critique such a life.
the same is not true of the rusticates of Misboury. unable to speak with authority, my comments here have been altogether less diverting for me and assuredly tedious for readers, mere shadows of my former wit.
in short, my invectives are no longer so personally fulfilling.
though beneath my dignity to admit so, the demands of the next fortnight may require more even than I can provide.
I shall suspend my commentations on the churlish inhabitants of this district until after Easter, as the majority of the season's most exclusive social events take place during Holy Week.
T. H. White's King Arthur is not dissimilar to a certain former American President whose inheritance and ambition belied a genuinely simple nature.
yet the conscientious reader does not extend the metaphor further.
two characteristics clearly distinguish these men; White's King Arthur is not prideful and he is guided by the perpetually-retrospective Merlyn (rather than Uther Pendragon incarnate).
I am fortunate not to have read the book as a youth. in my immaturity, I would have been impressed by its deprecating humor and preoccupation with thaumaturgy.
reading it now, I appreciate its bucolic setting, royal characters and righteous message.
indeed, my character would have been much attenuated had I read this novel, rather than The Pilgrim's Progress and The Faerie Queene, early in life.
though not raised in exaltation, this sign reminds passers-by of a once-popular group of ignoramuses - men too simple to recognize that ultimately their goals would be achieved legislatively and economically, without all that undignified violence and commotion.
the articulation of so many beliefs on one vehicle undermines their persuasive power. while they share a common theme, their abundance suggests superficiality, a lack of dedication to any one idea.
as my sister, Shaler Marie Van der Hoof Caddingham, said of the good-natured hermit newly installed at her estate, "his distinct odor, a mixture of gin and human expulsion, comforts as much as it revolts".
well-intentioned, straightforward and possessed of a racism tempered by a predisposition to fairness, Harry S. Truman reminds me of my grandfather. William Nichol Joshua Caddingham was given two middle names, a distinction equaling any bestowed Harry Truman during his tenure at the White House.
William Caddingham was a great man. his monument, like Truman's, can scarcely immortalize such a life.
en route to Kansas City for the weekend, I stopped at a quaint restaurant in Odessa of which I had heard much.
though its proprietor seems a rather unscrupulous little Irishman disposed to world domination, there I enjoyed a delicious cup of coffee at a very reasonable price.
a folk hero of some means and stature (though ill-gotten and among vermin and apologists, respectively), the abstemiousness of Jesse James surprised me.
as is apparent from his quarters, for more than quarters they certainly are not, he lived only on the plunder of a brief career in larceny, receiving not remuneration for the reproduction of his image nor intonation of his deeds.
perhaps because those most willing to distribute such artifacts and recount such gruesome tales are those least able to pay.
I know none who has ventured south of Florence on the Italian peninsula. and, though an actor, I have no reason to suspect The Bard of doing something so shocking.
his knowledge of the country seems confined to the northern regions.
this graffiteur has attempted to illuminate some great hypocrisy. yet I cannot understand the employ of such evocative language nor the existence of such palpable ire.
anyone privy to the unfortunate end of Miss Lily Bart already knows to be true what the artist hopes to lay bare.
further, such disregard for decorum and prudence reveals the artist is no gentleman and therefore can hardly judge any of our number.
though not one to exhaust himself with hypotheses, I believe I have come upon the fundamental difference between the inhabitants of Nebraskashire and those of Misboury. under the guise of mere historic significance, each district idolizes a different man whose ideals thusly manifest in the souls and pursuits of every person and institution of the region.
in Misboury, Thomas Jefferson guides the populace ever to desire that beyond what is, expanding the known from the banks of the Mississippi River to the beaches of the Pacific Ocean and risking much in so doing.
Nebraskashire reveres another whose greatest desire was to preserve and protect what was already possessed.
though the subject is rather awkwardly posed and his painter lacks the command of composition of a great artist, I am intrigued by the familiarity of the scene.
I too sit, bespectacled, amid my many leather bound books and read by the sunlight of a clear winter's day.
excluding God's eyes and certain former American presidents, I can think of no things with less international appeal than the two this establishment provides: indecipherable acronyms and pancakes.
despite many undeniably Southern attributes, Misboury could never truly be characterized as such because it lacks both of what I consider that region's greatest amenities: a warm climate and segregation.
as yet the only figure in the whole of Misboury for whom I have more than a superficial affection. my solitude requires me to be less judicious and overlook his obvious deficiencies.
I suppose one cannot always help if one's friends have an acute affinity for the French.
time away has afforded me a bit of perspective.
