Finally, in 1980, my Aunt Hortense purchased The Book of Counted Sorrows, intending to present it to me as an Arbor Day gift. Most people know nothing of the history of this volume, but as a novelist, it is part of my job to be well informed about an enormous number of subjects, many of them exotic, some of them arcane, and more than a few of them ridiculous. I was aware of the tome’s deadly effect on the many fine and admirable people who’d had the bad luck to come into possession of it. [I’m sure you understand that I do not mean to include J. Chandler Witherspoon as one of the “fine and admirable people,” for as everyone who ever knew him will tell you, he was a thorough prick.) I was also aware that although the book had been owned, at times, by women, and that although many of those women had read it cover to cover, and although many of them claimed to have achieved a singular enlightenment from their reading, and although eleven of them had been seen to rise off this earth and ascend in a shaft of golden light into heavens filled with singing cherubs, not any of these fine women had exploded or been violently emulsified, nor had any of them spun herself into butter or soft cheese, or swallowed herself. Consequently, I requested that Aunt Hortense retain ownership of Counted Sorrows and merely lend it to me for an unspecified length of time.
I was also aware that everyone who read every poem in the book met an explosive, buttery, or strange end, and that everyone who read all but one poem managed to escape violent death but nevertheless went insane. You will recall our esteemed and adored former employee, Thelma Kickmule, who now lives in a chicken coop in Iowa and is known by her coopmates as the “Featherless Hen.” With this in mind, and with good reason to believe that I would not have the social skills to be easily accepted in chicken society, I promised myself that I would read the entire collection of verse except for two poems, thus escaping both head explosion and insanity – though, sadly, this meant that I would fail to achieve the glorious enlightenment that had come to those who read the work complete. But, hey, I take solace from that old, wise saying: Glorious enlightenment and two dollars will buy you a latte at Starbucks.
(One more parenthetical aside, infuriating as it may be: Much thought has been given, by me and by other scholars, as to why women are able to read the entire book, achieve enlightenment, and suffer no negative consequences. [Excepting, of course, our Miss Kickmule, who, let’s face it, did have an unusually high testosterone level for a woman. She used to wrestle grizzly bears for relaxation and never cried when she saw The English Patient.] Is it because women have a greater capacity for truth and enlightenment than do mere men? Many scholars believe this is the answer – although these are primarily female scholars. Is it because men, while possessing a capacity for truth and enlightenment the equal of that possessed by women, simply have a devastating allergic reaction to the chemicals used in the ink or paper in this particular volume, which produces such distressing symptoms as head explosions, emulsification, metamorphosis into butter, and self-swallowing? Other scholars are convinced that this is the explanation – and although these are primarily males and may be biased, I have always read the book while wearing both latex gloves and quilted oven mittens.)
In any event, the verses that follow are the complete text of The Book of Counted Sorrows, except that we have withheld two poems in an attempt to spare male readers from the likelihood of madness and messy violent death. No need for any of you men to thank me for that. It is the least I can do.
Finally, a word about the verses themselves. Actually, here are more than a word; here are forty-three words about the verses themselves. But I felt it would sound peculiar to say “here are forty-three words about the verses themselves,” though now, through the mechanism of this clarification, I’ve gone ahead and said it anyway, so I might just as well have said it in the first place. Well, live and learn. So here are those forty-three words: Some of these poems are nothing but doggerel; some are doggerel with a touch of wisdom; others are of a more ambitious nature, and the level of success varies from piece to piece; and a few are perhaps emotionally and intellectually engaging.