I don’t imagine there’s much use in begrudging the late Mark Twain for having died. After all, in his own words, he’d “been dead for billions and billions of years before [he] was born and had not suffered the slightest inconvenience from it.”
Nevertheless, I wish he could read this. I like to imagine him spending a few minutes reading what’s to follow. I hope he’d feel honored in our beginnings and inspired by our irreverence.
Borrowing his words…
This is a web-log (blog) of a pleasure trip. If it were a record of a solemn scientific expedition, it would have about it that gravity, that profundity, and that impressive incomprehensibility which are so proper to works of that kind, and withal so attractive. Yet not withstanding it is only a record of a pic-nic, it has a purpose, which is to suggest to the reader how he or she, as a mother or father with children in tow, would likely see the enormity of the American wilderness if he or she was to use their own eyes instead of the eyes of those who have traveled in those reaches before. I make small pretense of showing anyone how he or she ought to look at objects of interest beyond the niceties of civilization or how to raise-up well adjusted adults–other records do that, and therefore, even if I were competent to do it, there is no need. I offer no apologies for any departures from the usual style of travel-writing that may be charged against me–for I think I (and my tiny family) are committed to seeing with impartial eyes, and am sure that we will have written at least honestly, whether wisely or not.
THE AUTHOR. SAN DIEGO.
Thank you sir, for The Innocents Abroad, or The New Pilgrim’s Progress. Thank you for the inspiration…these many years later.