"The Report of My Death Is an Exaggeration" Mark Twain, in a note to the London Office of the New York Herald Think of it as a fault-line fantasy that gets dressed up in mauve and black and latches on to certain people-- figures who excite debate, at least. Mark had popularity going for him. He wrote like a champ and was a nice guy off the court as well. You could always count on an aerial view of the subject, whatever subject, and end up knowing more than you had before liftoff. He'd fling open a door to the neat four-room treehouse of his heart and let you in, despite palpable risk to circulation, not to mention loss of privacy. Still, it moved, and the orbit that everyone expected to be reading any day now kept on not appearing, it just wouldn't. (Apparently I'm supposed to spell out the sequel, but, sorry, this topic has already terminated-- no, seriously, I mean it.) --Alfred Corn