Laura, the sweet and highly competent woman who created and has managed my website, assured me that, if I added text without setting up links, there was very little chance that anyone would stumble upon what I had written.

Which seemed okay. And also, not okay at all.

I don’t want readership, you remember, but I’d like readers. “We few, we happy few, we band of brothers.”

I considered catching your attention as the representative of a long lost cousin who died in a tragic automobile crash in Nigeria and has left 30 million in cash in your name. Or I might have listed “The five foods most likely to precipitate your heart attack.” *

But I have the distinct impression that the people who write that sort of copy are well paid and in advance. Samuel Johnson asserted that no man but a blockhead ever wrote except for money. But then Samuel Johnson lived in different times. Today’s writers seek fame. Or fame is a stage they expect to pass through on their way to the grotesqueries of extreme wealth.

I can’t be certain, but I have the distinct impression that fame is poison. Sometimes it makes the audience sick unto death. Sometimes it kills the famous.

         * Fell for it. I have no idea. Fat back? Pig’s feet? Carrots?