When I was growing up, I never thought much about authors.  I only ever cared about the books (Misty of Chincoteague!  Charlie and the Chocolate Factory!  Later, The Count of Monte Cristo!).  If I’m being honest, I’d have to say that persisted through at least my twenties (One Hundred Years of Solitude! The Unbearable Lightness of Being!).  Only as I’ve gotten older have I become …

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