One of the things that I admire about the New York Review of Books is a special honor that they reserve for what they call the “lost masterpieces of American fiction.” In effect, they acknowledge that occasionally, a major literary work goes unacknowledged. Sometimes, a decade or more goes by and then a noted American critic or author asks, “How did you miss this one?” It seems to have flown in under the radar, undetected and then passed into oblivion.
I’ve always felt the greatest gift is the gift of music.
Though I’ve never been a huge fan of receiving presents (I’d rather spend quality time with a loved one, save your money), the gifts that meant the most to me where melodic. It was a dear friend giving me a mix CD of the “Best Road Trip Songs,” my uncle handing me a copy of The Who’s “Who’s Next” or my mother buying me a ticket for my 18th birthday to see The Rolling Stones on their “Forty Licks” tour.