strunk and white

The sister and I were talking about style last night. Not the ‘Fashion Week’ type. The Tolstoy, Faulkner and Hardy type.

A family member once accused me of letting life pass by while my head was stuck in a book.

Clearly, said family member didn’t understand me. At all. The sister did.

Maybe it was because, as the eldest, I was able to force my will upon the younger sib. (There’s an article somewhere in Time about this.) And my will, at ten, was all Byron and Bronte and Pearl S. Buck.

Though I’m fairly certain the sister would have done it on her own, these days she’s the first to admit: “I was just seven years old when Buffy started making me read Dickins.”

I’m very glad I did it. I think she is too.