Yes, I vaguely remember wondering who was that, why was I hearing that evil wicked witch of literature who was screaming in my ear about the literary establishment of 19th century America, about how they were all such terrible people. Thus, I am such a hypocrite for having whiled away the hours of my youth playing Authors' card game. Do I even know who those people were? Have I ever read even half of those books, or even have any idea what those books are? And yet, who am I to argue with the society and culture that has designated certain faces to appear on the card fronts of Authors' card game, everyone else being mostly part of the flood of mediocrity by contest? How could God ever use me now that my brain has been contaminated by exposure to this chronicle of bestial groanings? Yes, I certainly would not necessarily want to recommend that. And who was that shrill witch, was she a composite of evil demons sent to scourge and torment?
