I think I will be doing you, Gentle Readers, a courtesy, here at the beginning of our time together, to spend a few moments and describe me and my circumstances. Doing so will be the work of a moment, and I believe it will save us both immeasurable trouble: you in achieving a more profound understanding of my relentlessly unconventional yet unflaggingly correct opinions, and me in continually offering the tiresome explanation of their genesis. I hope therefore you will indulge me in this. I am not naturally self-centered; talking about myself can be excruciating for one as modest as I, but I shall make this effort for both our sakes, secure in the knowledge that by doing so, I am pursuing the good of all. To begin, you may picture me in the room in which I am now writing these words. This is a room I usually call "my study", though I have heard my faithful servant (whose name escapes me at the moment) refer to it as the "Great Library", to distinguish it both from the smaller library downstairs in the South Wing--the one that looks out over the boxwood hedge maze--and my two other, smaller, dingier, more poorly-stocked libraries that I keep in the less-fashionable North Wing for the use of visiting orphans, clergy, and poor relatives. About the North Wing, the less said the better. Located as it is in the tower, the Great Library has a sweeping view of my estate, all the way out to the blasted heath to the southeast and the stark cliffs that loom over the pounding surf due south. This brief description makes my property sound more severe than it is--I can assure you: my land is nothing if not verdant. Bucolic is a fair term that might be used. From where I sit, I can see acre upon acre of rolling green lawns grazed by sheep--presumably mine--and woods that are dark and deep to an appropriate--but not excessive--degree. I abhor the Gothic in all things, and tolerate it never, least of all in my land. A man's land reflects his very soul, said someone or other--perhaps me--and mine is as sunny a corner of our fair nation as our admittedly hideous weather will permit. Even now, I see the sheep shaking their heads miserably under the ice-water drizzle that marks this least-favorable of all our seasons. Still, it does good to one's heart to be sitting indoors on a day such as this, warm and dry by the fire, watching other creatures get the worst of it from the comfort of your chair. My study is not overly austere. I believe it is harmful to exercise one's intellectual faculties in a grubbily monastic environment. A shameful lack of attention to luxuries in the place where one thinks is why the graduates of most universities lack even the rudiments of common sense: they spend years upon years packed one on top of another on a campus that could easily serve as some sort of bus terminal or revenue office--drabness upon shabbiness, squared and cubed. The mind cannot properly stretch itself upon any matter of consequence without a deep, comfortable chair underneath it, a warm fire beside it, a pleasant vista before it, and suitable refreshments close at hand--for thinking is difficult work, and constant refreshment is crucial if one desires good results. I have therefore ensured that my study is well-stocked with every comfort and convenience, the light is good, and the silence--blessed silence!--is perpetually unbroken within these sacred walls. I have taken particular care with the books I have allowed within my study. Volumes that are either too new or too old disturb the mind and must be moved to other rooms. I have designed my collection of books so that it possesses a certain gravity, so that running one's eyes over the shelves causes one to feel the weight of history without be oppressed by it. A well-designed book collection should bring to mind one's responsibility towards those thinkers who have come before us, without feeling as though they are looking over one's shoulder at every moment. It is delicate work to design such a collection, for really we are designing a companion for ourselves who will bring out the best in us. This is a work that can never truly be said to be complete. The effort, though, repays itself every moment that we are in its presence. As for myself, you may picture a man of middle age, neither particularly handsome nor desiring to be. I do not consider myself even slightly remarkable in appearance. Having come in from a tramp across my estate this morning, I have within the hour changed my wet tweeds and muddy boots for a long, thick gown of curious design and a pair of exceptionally warm slippers. Both gown and slippers were given to me by a family of Uzbeks after I assisted them with some difficulty they were having with a local shaman. My efforts amounted to very little in the grand scheme of things, but I have fond memories of the family, and the warmth of both garments is unsurpassed. This, then, I hope you will accept as an all-too-brief introduction to the man and the circumstances from which these words of wisdom emanate. I am loathe to provide more details about my estate or about myself, simply because I am embarrassingly well-known, and I do not wish my considerable reputation or accomplishments to color what I have to convey. Let these words stand on their own merits! If they are worthy, I trust they will thrive independent of their author. Then let us forgive ourselves of specifics, you and I, and embrace the Universal. I shall say only that my estate is in an English-speaking nation--which one, I will not specify--and that I myself am a man of considerable experience and resources, with much to grace the youth of today in the way of hard-won wisdom. If you must refer to me at all, Gentle Readers, then let me offer you the following hook upon which you may hang your fancies about me, and a nom de plume to which you may address your thanks and praise. I remain, therefore, Faithfully, -Your Dear Uncle