Published first in Paris after
he died,
the French titled it Mémoires
de la vie
privée de Benjamin Franklin (they tried,
of course, to squeeze your name
in the mêlée
of that long announcement). Decades
later,
his grandson chopped a rough
English version
which crawled through to Twentieth
century
where Twain and Lawrence cast their
aspersions
with wit and impunity. (I, of
course,
value your critique over
theirs, since you
cherish the text as inspiring
discourse.)
I’m happy to see how scholars’
reviews
agree with you. (I figured
they might agree.)
Most of all, I’m happy to see
you happy!
Roger Armbrust
January 24, 2013
