Sometimes I wonder if Bradbury, Bukowski, and Abbey were friends— after all, their surnames are shoulder-to-shoulder on the shelf, elbowing each other within the alphabet. Ginsberg, Hemingway, and Ibsen too.
Neruda and Rilke are parted by an ocean, and Zappa and Patterson are alphabetically distant.
But there are doubled letters in their names, like a backbeat pounding in my brain, so now there’s a new club forming, one that includes Miller and Burroughs, Williams, Berry, Shelley, and Hesse.
Hmm— seems like quite a few end in ‘y’— can’t stop seeing it now.
Maybe there’s a secret fraternity of authors who use initials: E.E., W.H., G.K., H.D., and the triple threat— W.E.B.
What about a Society of Long Names— Ferlinghetti and Solzhenitsyn— with a subcommittee of short ones: like Corso, Lee, Twain.
And of course, an association with a high percentage of vowels: Asimov, Bono, DiPrima, Kerouac, Leary for sure present for the roll call— so the beat goes on…
Desert Dweller 