Beerbohm is my idol. No other essayist has ever provided me a better example, rewarded more regular reading, made me smile more. Nothing he touched with pencil or pen has ever failed to amuse me. I've read his letters, his very occasional verse, his theater criticism, his exquisite essays, time and again. I've read every biography and memoir extant. His pictures are favorites, no matter their subjects. His is a name I search for in books by other authors, in biographies, anthologies and history. He is my dapper little demigod; Puck in a bow-tie and boater. Why Max? Might as well ask me, why read?
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