I was thinking about saying something about Shel Silverstein after I read that he'd died at the age of 66. I posted a little piece on Pamie's thread when I read her journal today at work. I remember reading some of his stories when I was in college, particularly a piece called (I think) Lafcadio the Great that appeared in Playboy in the 1960's. Perhaps it was a foretaste of the children's books to come, the gentle tale of a lion who meets his first human being, is brought to civilization and becomes so imitative and integrated into the world of man that he eventually finds himself on a lion hunt, rifle in paw, searching for, well, lions. I particularly enjoyed it, remembering it when I came to San Francisco.

I met Silverstein briefly when I lived in Sausalito. I was sitting on a stone wall up above the sidewalk with Susan, eating hot dogs and watching the traffic move along the main drag. Silverstein walked by and Susan introduced me. I recalled the story and told him how much I'd liked it and I think he was pleased. It was a good and gentle and intelligent story and I suspect he was proud of it.

Susan, I seem to recall, had moved around a bit on Silverstein's side of Sausalito before we got together and there was a certain part of me that didn't like that very much, but Silverstein was not only a popular artist and writer of the time, he was good. And I've always had a great respect for writers who were good. And got published. And, what the hell, had a proper enthusiasm for attractive blonds.

So at 66 he's gone, leaving books that still live in the hearts of those who read them, young and old, and he has a little place in my memory as well for that damned lion who, sucked under civilization's spell, was able to get himself out in time for a happy ending. In Playboy.