by Robert Abernathy
_To free Truth from its wrappings with the sparkling irony and
engaging insight of a prophetic pen was the self-appointed task of
Robert Abernathy in this remarkable story. He’s succeeded so well
that we’ll never see a frail old woman hobbling down a country lane
or a cake of homemade soap without bracing ourselves against the
collapse of our world and the coming of the millennium._
=Grandma’s soap was a miracle of miracles under the stars. If you
don’t believe it--just try lying to the flying saucer folk.=
Of course you’ll believe this story. Everybody will. The funny thing is
that it _could_ be a lie....
To make that point clearer: A little while ago I happened to be at a
gathering of literary amateurs and critics, one of those sprawling
aimless affairs where people mill around with drinks in their hands,
congealing in little clusters to talk or listen to somebody talk.
I listened. I heard a serious bespectacled, young man discourse not
unintelligently on Proust, and I heard a plump gentleman make some
safe, sound comments on Faulkner.
Nobody disagreed with them. Nobody argued. Nobody even said, “But--”