Dad, this morning, introduced me to this S.J. Pearlman find:
“It may seem arbitrary to select for one’s affection any single title from twenty catalogues full of them, yet there is something so artless, so down right dewy, about G.P. Putnam’s Sons issuing a book called Trout Fishing in New Zealand in War Time that you want to rush up to their editorial offices, tuck back their beards, and smother them with kisses. It’s a pity that so sweeping a title, embracing, as it does, sport, travel, and war, couldn’t have sneaked in a romantic complication as well, like Trout Fishing with Lana Turner in New Zealand in War Time.”