
Dr. Rumack (Leslie Nielsen): Can you fly this plane, and land it?
Ted Striker (Robert Hays): Surely you can't be serious.
Dr. Rumack: I am serious... and don't call me Shirley.












You could probably get us to set fire to our own trousers if there was a good laugh to be had in it somewhere . . . so after all the praise and awards that have been Heaped Upon Us, we decided it was time to add some substance to a phrase we often hear...with the launch of our special edition of Rose fragranced Poo-Pourri™ we can now proudly boast that we are the only company on earth (and possibly in the know-able universe) whose poo literally smells of roses. 


Livingstone was equally at home wandering the wilds of Africa and making small talk over tea with the Queen. The public made his books best-sellers, his speeches standing room, his name household. Livingstone was beloved in Britain, and so famous worldwide that one poll showed that only Victoria herself was better known.











Each single-author book is immensely particular, a story told as only one storyteller could recount it. Scholarship is a collagist, building the next iteration of what we know book by book. Stories end, and that, I think, is a very good thing. A single authorial voice is a kind of performance, with an audience of one at a time, and no performance should outstay its welcome. Because a book must end, it must have a shape, the arc of thought that demonstrates not only the writer's command of her or his subject but also that writer's respect for the reader. A book is its own set of bookends.





Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity,
For he's a fiend in feline shape, a monster of depravity.

In every block of marble I see a statue as plain as though it stood before me, shaped and perfect in attitude and action. I have only to hew away the rough walls that imprison the lovely apparition to reveal it to the other eyes as mine see it.

Never yet has poet sung a perfect song,
But his life was rooted like a tree's, among
Earth's great, feeding forces,--even as crag and mould,
Rhythms that stir the forest by firm fibres hold.
Harmonies ethereal haunt his topmost bough,
Upward from the mortal drawn, he knows not how:
The old, sacred story of celestial birth
Rising from terrestrial; heaven revealed through earth.