Appreciating Asmodai

There are quite a few people who are not just people… they are artists… and not your unshaved, shoeless variety… they are the real thing… they are where it’s at… and a smattering of them are soulless… for they are so absolutely topping at what they do that they’re sure to have rented their soul to the devil, if not to have auctioned it outright… or maybe even sold it over the counter at a 10% discount…

There is of course du Maurier… nobody could possibly question the authenticity of the fact that she had sold her soul to the devil… after all she is so darn delightful… there is also I believe Wodehouse, who in the enormity of his heart faced the world with a brave smile, not wanting us mortals to know of the vaccum in his gallbladder where his soul had put up a “To Let” sign and rented a summer cottage in the Hades… Christie I think leased her soul out at different periods of time… there are in her oeuvre occasional gems indicative of the truly soulless… Dickens and Hardy fancied themselves soulless and that I’m afraid has been their undoing all along… and one cannot not mention von Trapp – mere modesty aside: soulleast, if ever there was one.

To think all great literature and street-corner pubs are nothing but the indelible signs of the munificence resident in dear Ol’ Nick’s heart… the misunderstood unappreciated poor little dah-ling! Sniff!