Today’s “Writer’s Almanac” daily email features Maxwell Perkins, the brilliant editor of F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway, Thomas Wolfe, among others. (Remember Auntie Mame’s cry of delight when she finds she’s getting an editor for her book? “Who? Maxwell Perkins??”)
It concluded with, “When Maxwell Perkins died, he still had a pile of manuscripts next to his bed.”
Now I’m depressed.
Ars longa, vita brevis, and a truer word was never spoke.
In other news, they’re auctioning off a complete autographed set of the Harry Potter novels, the only known set to exist. They (I forget whom) are expecting $20,000 for it; proceeds go to an organization which gets books into the hands of children in developing countries.
Hey, I’d pay that for the set. In fact, with my lottery winnings, I’ll do even better. I’ll give them $250,000 if Jo sits down to dinner with us (I’ll cook) and then autographs my two sets after dessert. That sounds fair, doesn’t it?
On a lesser scale, consider giving to our local Ferst Foundation effort.