I bought a book, ladies and gents. Aye, a fine book. Perusing a dusty, little used bookstore was not as inspiring or even as exciting as I had first hoped. There were maybe 5 bookshelves sparingly stocked with other people’s words bound in various formats. But I found one. One lonely soul among the lost.
Before I share the title, I want to read to you the excerpt which made me desire this book with abundant glee, enough to dig up a whole 2 dollars so that I might purchase it from the disinterested (and vaguely “touched”) bookstore keeper.
In the display cases of commercial photographers in the (blank) market towns there is mute but graphic evidence of the terrors which marriage holds for the (blank) male. Testimony to the foreboding the (blank)man feels about matrimony is written unsparingly in the displays of wedding-party photographs. The centerpiece is always the bridegroom, trussed up for once in his life in formal attire. He stands there stiff with fright and stares wildly into the camera’s eye. Ranked beside him is the best man, who looks almost as miserable as his doomed friend. The other males in the wedding party try to conceal an expression of pity or contempt, if unmarried themselves, or a sort of gloating commiseration, if married. On the face of the bride there is often a look of bewildered triumph, as though she were still unable to believe the trembling specimen beside her has knelt with her before the parish priest. She may also be conscious of the fact the bridegroom’s mother, even though he may be a boy of forty-eight, is looking daggers because a scheming female has snatched her son away in the prime of his youth.
I have a feeling this may prove most amusing to idle away the wee hours.
This has been,
Fanny T. Crispin