[John Whitworth]

Roger, It's a bit like Paradise Lost. The want of human interest is always felt. I like Paradise Lost better though. And I did read a lot of it a long time ago. But I'll have another try - ALL the chapters, no cheating.

[Roger Slater]

Maybe you shouldn't trust me, then. I read Paradise Lost straight through, like a novel (having found an edition without footnotes), and I'm as baffled by the suggestion that it lacks human interest as I'd be if you said it lacked angels and devils and serpents and forbidden fruit. Paradise Lost and Proust (where we apparently meet) were perhaps the two greatest reads of my life. Both more than Moby Dick. It could just be the mood I was in when I set about them, of course. Lord Jim, for example, pretty much blew me away at the time, but I'm not not sure I'd still feel that way. As far as American novels are concerned, only Huck Finn is better than Moby Dick by my lights, but I don't think I can pull off a dialogue between Twain and Huck.

[Gail White]

Is anybody going to write an actual entry for this thing?
Here goes:

Charlotte Bronte; Mr. Rochester

R: Who is this little dormouse of a woman?

CB: O Edward, I invented you to love me,
you are my wish-fulfillment, my ideal!

R: What happened to Miss Ingram? I prefer
an ample armful.

CB: You're supposed to love a small, plain woman.

R: Not on your life. You have the sex appeal
of a tiggywinkle.

CB: Beware the fury of a woman scorned.
I can blind you and mutilate you.

R: You woudn't.

CB: Watch me.

R: Have mercy! You might grow on me!

CB: There, with one stroke of the pen,
reader, I buried him.

[Susan McLean]

Entertaining, Gail, but I think the last reply should just be "Reader, I buried him." Keep it pithy for more impact.

Susan

[Roger Slater]

I DO NOT LIKE YOUR SILLY BOOK

"But Ted, I love green eggs and ham!
I always have and always will."
"That's not what you'll tell Sam-I-Am.
You'll tell him that they taste like swill.
Or maybe you'll flat-out refuse
to try the stuff, and this of course'll
give poor Sam-I-Am the blues.
He'll say 'I beg you, try one morsel.'"
"And I'll just keep on saying no?
It needs more plot, Ted, don't you think?"
"My clever rhymes will make it flow."
"You're crazy, Ted. The book will stink."

[John Whitworth]

Roger, I think Johnson was speaking arithmetically. There are only two people. Unless you count Satan as a person, which I suspect most people do. Not a Personal God, but a personal devil.

Dammit, Gail, mine IS an entry. And so is yours. With Susan's emendation you could be in the money.

Oh God, Roger, how ignorant I am proving to be. I love your rhyme but I don't know the book. Tell me, do.

[Julie Steiner]

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Green_Eggs_and_Ham

Dang, John. However will you choose which American classic to read first?

"Call me Ishmael" / "Sam-I-am"
white whale / green eggs and ham
obsessed one-legged man / obsessed, anatomically improbable whatsit
man's struggle against fate / man's struggle against persistent annoyances and unappealing foods
climactic shipwreck / climactic shipwreck
635 pages / 72 pages

[basil ransome-davies]

Some people find little human interest in Rasselas, which is full of people but ponderous, schematic & lacking the richness of style that distinguishes Milton.
But Dr Seuss – now you're talking, Roger. My sons loved that one.

[basil ransome-davies]

This may lead to something, may even be 50% of something.

Poe, you are a tiresome bastard, quarrelsome and often plastered,
Though I grant beneath the bullshit lies a vein of precious ore.
Even a poetic maven shouldn't smell and be unshaven
Or pick on the nearest raven just to settle some old score.
Desperate and alcoholic, you have made my role symbolic,
As if birds are simply tokens in a stock of mythic lore.
Though aesthetically you need me, you won't leave your chair and feed me.
I am hungry. Do you read me? Not a chance. We've no rapport.

[basil ransome-davies]

Poe, you are an awkward bastard, quarrelsome and often plastered,
Though I grant beneath the bullshit lies a vein of precious ore.
Even a poetic maven shouldn't smell and be unshaven
Or pick on the nearest raven just to settle some old score.
Desperate and alcoholic, you have made my role symbolic,
As if birds are simply tokens in a stock of mythic lore.
Though aesthetically you need me, you won't leave your chair and feed me.
I am hungry. Do you read me? Not a chance. We've no rapport.

Well, my friend, you may be feathered, but I'll wager you've not weathered
Slander and humiliation, years of being shown the door.
Food's a matter for the waiter, what the soul demands is greater;
Genius in a creator seeks a mission, not a chore.
When the muse is in attendance I know nothing but transcendence.
Birdseed is a mundane item, infra dig, but don't get sore.
Thanks to entering my portal you've the chance to be immortal.
You should not complain but chortle. Now you'll live for evermore.