After wishing yesterday that I could write a decent nursery rhyme, full of sound and fury signifying something, I find out that good old G.K. Chesterton did. At least, acccording to Jack at Moteworthy, he wrote parodies of nursery rhymes. Oh, well, I already knew that I wasn’t in the same class with Chesterton. And Eldest Daughter tells me that she’s going to write a paper for her Great Texts class in which Augustine “psychoanalyzes” a modern-day seeker after self-esteem. Apparently, according to same daughter, Petrarch managed to call Augustine back from the dead and have him spout Petrarch’s ideas about death–which seem rather morbid to me when I hear them from Eldest Daughter third hand–or is it fourth hand? Anyway, the question is: why can’t I be creative like Petrarch and G.K. Chesterton and P. G. Wodehouse and Eldest Daughter? Is it because I go by Sherry instead of S.D.?