My mystery correspondent has resorted to snail mail to send me what she insists in an unsigned typed note is no joke—Daniel Defoe’s novel, Robinson Crusoe. She sent the paperback Priority two days after Ric’s party.
The note says Defoe 300 years ago was a fresher writer and thinker than Ayn Rand was 50 years ago. I’ll check it out, however doubtfully. Of course I’ve read Defoe’s Journal of the Plague Year, an extremely realistic account of the Black Death in 1665 London. (Buy them both here!) Some suspect the British government paid him to write propaganda to stir public support for unpopular measures they were taking against plague.
Face it, lady: Ayn Rand wrote good yarns. Sure they’re simplistic, but they’re driven by ideas and they’re fun to read.
Today I contacted the LES DIY’s coordinator, a woman who sang a New Wave hit in the 1980s and now runs a big community garden. She says the gang is hard at work preparing for Round Two. I pledged to keep them shielded in protective gear until this pandemic is resolved for real—and not merely obscured by social euphoria and willful ignorance.
She agreed to pass my contact information to the medical student I met. I suspect Val may already have sent me history’s first English-language literary classic. I want to know for sure.
I’d like to send her The Fountainhead. Then we can compare notes—she on copious rum, me on martinis.
I’m pleased to report that the LES DIY has officially asked me to join. Of course I’d never enlist in a collective organization, but I’m grateful for the recognition. I’ll continue to back their efforts. Now for some reading….