Another teensy required reading book to pass the time. I picked it up feeling I needed to learn about this man who writes and draws poor illustrations. He seems to be referenced everywhere, all the time. A classic humorist, people say. A copy was already on my shelf, skinny and hiding. Lynne Truss mentioned the guy maybe three times—some fights he had with corresponding linguists, in particular.
Maybe I missed something here. It was OK. Didn’t do it for me. Just didn’t care. I imagine James Thurber having a profound influence on the later writings of Woody Allen, which I much prefer. In those instances, the world’s shortest biography did shine. The last chapter was terrific. And then it was over.
Here’s a sentence I liked:
Probably no one man should have as many dogs in his life as I have had, but there was more pleasure than distress in them for me except in the case of an Airedale named Muggs.
This was strangely relevant to me:
Her mother loved the name Juanita so dearly that she worked the first part of it into the names of all her daughters — they were (in addition to a Juanita) Juanemma, Juanhelen, and Juangrace.
Interesting things you can learn by reading the back cover:
He died within a year of Faulkner and Hemingway.
He talks “largely about small matters and smally about great affairs.”
Not sure what’s coming next. Some YA, maybe. Now taking suggestions.