I often default to Mark Twain. Perhaps because you cannot match his cleverness or self-effacement. His honesty is like a tonic. Like this, from his newly published autobiography:
By my count I have been in the right mood for competently and exhaustively feeding my ancient grudges in the cases of only thirteen deserving persons. It makes good reading. whenever I go back and re-read those little biographies and characterizations it cheers me up, and I feel I have not lived in vain. The work was well done. The art of it is masterly. I admire it more and more every time I examine it. I do believe I have flayed and mangled and mutilated those poor people beyond the dreams of avarice.
But then there is Wangerin writing about someone who has recently found the love of his life:
Chauntecleer healed more quickly than anyone else. This was not just because he had so strong a constitution, one well able to knit even the most open wound. But this was also because his spirits were so high. He laughed enormously and often, these days. He talked much, and he would talk on any topic available, to anyone who asked a question. And Chauntecleer began to fancy himself a philosopher. He stared up and spoke grandly of God and of the ways of the Deity.He disclosed the hidden patterns of his effective rule. And most particularly he discoursed on beauty- female beauty - its attraction to the male. And he smiled in his sleep these nights, Chauntecleer did, because his dreams were all good. And he healed very quickly.
The value of a night like this, of course, is to be introduced to other authors. I have been delighted to read the whole book after hearing a short reading. And I have learned to avoid an author after just a brief sample. Sorry Cameron, but Pride and Prejudice and the Zombies didn't make the grade with me.
