Claiming as much of my title as 'Nature Boy' as I can in good conscience do, the book goes out.
What vainglory to proceed yet one more time with work finding no apparent resonance.
What chutzpah to characterize a genre, to handle what's taken there to be dead tendril and claim to resurrect it, to resuscitate its green, to draw the gardening shears from the stone, as it were, to wheel the kingly barrow, to sculpt for kings as might a Capability Brown.
O, Modern World! You've taken a poor man's son and treated him as a prince
Trained him for decisions and an art, but not recognized it since.