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Quidam is obsessed with privacy, obscurity and anonymity. He sees those as exigent to a vital life. He has an Artium Baccalaureus in History but is self-educated as he is a relentless autodidact. To him, the university degree was merely the starting gun of the education marathon not completeable. The author drinks more than he aught but not as much as he wants but he does not have a drinking problem; he has a writing problem. Yet, when stewed to upright drunk he never writes as it is even more jejune than when sober. He has an incurable severe case of logomania. He passes many hours moodling amongst flowers shunning striving letting the mot juste pop into his brain; it must not only have the right meaning but the right sound, whether sonorous or dissonant. He has the queer idea that learning other languages improves one's English. He lives in an American backwater in nigh total solitude where he begins each day round 0300 being in China the Double Hour of the Monkey embracing his utter insignificance listening on his iPOd on really loud to the Brasilero Djavan's, “Me Leve, My lightness or Insignificance.” In the recent blip ago yore of 1983 aft five or so years of autodidactic Greek study he made gaffe ultimo of going to Greece with his Greek-American wife who was, as near as he can remember when he feigns being a punctilious accountant, wife #2. When he came onto the crest of a hill to see the Parthenon he was bunged in the gut with “Something is wrong with the way I am success living. Seven years later he found the courage or stupidity of chucking his success to strive to live a life of his own volition. Aft a whole lot trouble and error he finally found his nitch; as a rather poor existence as a reclusive gardener for the Podunk tiny town he lives near. He grows a polychrome of sunflowers which signify false riches in florigraphy reminding him of his once false life. When he was asked to do the gardening he agreed to do so with three rules: One: no cell phone. Two: I shall never attend a meeting. Three: No one shall interfere. (A good garden is as a good book or good music, a solo composition. He has won awards for his gardening which he ignores.) He made the gaffe of creating his gardens within the town limits and thus his great ineffable sorrow; he is not allowed to have noble pigs.
The author would be most grateful if you bought this but even more grateful if you did not read it. He has tried to offend everyone but has failed, due not to lack of effort but a dearth of talent.