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There is nothing like the exquisite pains of Browns fandom.
Most Christmas gifts are ephemeral—except books.
When fan mail mattered.
Perhaps gentlemanliness is superior to genius.
Sometimes the “business of poltroons” yields a masterpiece despite itself.
What’s the point of a secular holiday if you can’t even have fun?
Claiming your ticket is the “obvious” choice invites disaster.
What if—quelle horreur—Trump actually was voters’ real preference?
