*** Thomas H. Cook is arguably America ’s shortest male crime writer. Utterly lacking in tough-guy characteristics, he remains the mystery world’s most consistent no-show at sporting events, car races, horse races, and urban marathons. He has never painted his face in anticipation of the Super Bowl and is allergic to beer. His only experience with law enforcement was being pulled over for speeding, at which time he was given only a warning. As a boy, he wanted to be a great writer; then he read some great writers and decided he was nowhere near that good. Since then, he has churned out more than twenty novels and a smattering of nonfiction. He likes writing short stories because they’re short, and he does not like writing long books because they’re long. He has never read Remembrance of Things Past, though on the street he is often mistaken for Marcel Proust.
Hear the sledges with the bells- Silver bells! What a world of merriment their melody foretells! How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, In the icy air of night! While the stars that oversprinkle All the heavens, seem to twinkle With a crystalline delight; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells From the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells- From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. Hear the mellow wedding bells- Golden bells! What a world of happiness their harmony foretells! Through the balmy air of night How they ring out their delight!- From the molten-golden notes, And all in tune, What a liquid ditty floats To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats On the moon! Oh, from out the sounding cells What a gush of euphony voluminously wells! How it swells! How it dwells On the Future!-how it tells Of the rapture that impels To the swinging and the ringing Of the bells, bells, bells- Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells- To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!
