Panache

I am currently reading O. Henry: 100 Selected Short Stories.

I have read 97 of them. You ask "Well, why the fuck didn't you read the other three before talking to us?"

Because I am a go getter. An up and comer. A Junior Executive on the rise. I am pursuing my destiny like a bull after the red cape. I'll probably end up with a sword in my shoulder as the bull inevitably does, but what are you gonna do?

I can't lose one second reading another O. Henry story today. I gotta lay the foundation for a successful corporate career. And hundreds of thousands of dollars of hard earned, well deserved income.

I became aware of O' Henry quite a while ago. You can't be an avid reader like me and not come across hundreds of references that pique the curiosity. My perspective was limited - all I knew was that he is beloved by many. What I have learned is that he skewers the rich and their condescension towards the unrich quite ironically. But he also paints a sad picture of the poor - who outnumber the rich by a zillion to one, and whose ranks I count myself among.

Consistently he accentuates the folly of being a human being, no matter what your bank balance is. How we are all so fucking stupid that we waste our lives on pettiness, forgetting that death writes the final paragraph.

He is known for his surprise endings. When you read story after story you find yourself wondering what the twist in this one will be; you try to second guess O. Henry.

His real name was William Sydney Porter. He lived from 1862 to 1910. In 1891 he began work as a teller at the First National Bank of Austin. In 1894 he was accused of embezzling funds and was fired. In 1895 he was arrested on charges of embezzlement, with a trial scheduled for 1896 , but he fled to New Orleans and then Honduras. Eventually he surrendered to the court and was sentenced to five years in prison, beginning on March 25, 1898. He was released on July 24, 1901.

He was a heavy drinker. He died on June 5, 1910 at the age of 47 of cirrhosis of the liver.

Now that's a fucking life. No wonder he became such a great writer.

Creativity and self-destruction go together like a horse and carriage.

Brace yourself - I am about to buy books by Guy De Maupassant and Gustave Flaubert. Does this make me pretentious? Nooooooooooo - it makes me a fucking genius. Or, at the very least, a literary seeker.

I want to change my name to Gustave Flaubert. That would give me the panache to succeed in life.

You know what they say: Boring name, boring life.