I emulate them not, I forge not their styles, I aspire to their reputations,
I envy their imprimaturs, their prose more esoteric than I could xerox,
their command of the lexicon incomparable, their knowledge of other
tongues impeccable, their verbosity, at times unbearable, they are my
heroes in literature.
They are, Hemingway, Dos Passos, Caldwell, Fitzgerald, Pound, Eliot,
Twain, Salinger, Wolfe, and even Stein and Faulkner. They are no more,
except on library shelves, classrooms, bonfires, and in my heart.
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