Fred W. Jenkins

Mr. Collier was always trying to interest me in unexpected key changes in arias and oratorios. He was obsessed with Homer, and went around speaking ancient Greek. He was conducting studies in Rhapsody. What is a Rhapsode? What, indeed. It is a person who memorizes the entirety of Homer in ancient Greek and goes around reciting it.

This, I have concluded, is the sign of a true eccentric, for when you ask a true eccentric why he takes an interest in the things he does, he will not be able to tell you. When you ask him Why, the true eccentric does not know. He does not know why he does it. He just does it.

"What thou lovest is thy true heritage?"
(a quote from the Pisan Cantos)

He attached himself to his duty, and during the interstices of time, he innocently performed his daily rituals, without which he would certainly have Fallen Apart.

Then he asked the undertaker what kind of funeral he would like to have himself, after seeing so many other people's funerals, and what kind of burial he would like to have. The glamorous undertaker said, 'I would like to be exploded.'
'You mean, exploded like with dynamite, at the funeral?' said Claude.
'Yes.'
This was Claude's kind of person."

It is true, New Orleans was never normal. Being normal was one quality New Orleans just never had.

Dark fell. I looked into the gathering night. Suddenly, a parade came out of nowhere and passed through the unsuspecting street, heralded by African drumbeats in the distance vaguely, then the approach of jazz, the smell of sweet olive, ambrosia, the sense of impending spectacle. Then it passed in its fleeting beauty, this glittering dirge, and, as suddenly as it came, I was left, rather stunned, in its wake.
It is this passing parade that I chronicle.

Mr. Collier was always trying to interest me in unexpected key changes in arias and oratorios. He was obsessed with Homer, and went around speaking ancient Greek. He was conducting studies in Rhapsody. What is a Rhapsode? What, indeed. It is a person who memorizes the entirety of Homer in ancient Greek and goes around reciting it.

This, I have concluded, is the sign of a true eccentric, for when you ask a true eccentric why he takes an interest in the things he does, he will not be able to tell you. When you ask him Why, the true eccentric does not know. He does not know why he does it. He just does it.

"What thou lovest is thy true heritage?"
(a quote from the Pisan Cantos)

He attached himself to his duty, and during the interstices of time, he innocently performed his daily rituals, without which he would certainly have Fallen Apart.

Then he asked the undertaker what kind of funeral he would like to have himself, after seeing so many other people's funerals, and what kind of burial he would like to have. The glamorous undertaker said, 'I would like to be exploded.'
'You mean, exploded like with dynamite, at the funeral?' said Claude.
'Yes.'
This was Claude's kind of person."

It is true, New Orleans was never normal. Being normal was one quality New Orleans just never had.

Dark fell. I looked into the gathering night. Suddenly, a parade came out of nowhere and passed through the unsuspecting street, heralded by African drumbeats in the distance vaguely, then the approach of jazz, the smell of sweet olive, ambrosia, the sense of impending spectacle. Then it passed in its fleeting beauty, this glittering dirge, and, as suddenly as it came, I was left, rather stunned, in its wake.
It is this passing parade that I chronicle.