Literature is crowded with books that stand alone, or perhaps with but one other of the same parentage. The authors of these singularities may be known to us no other way: think of the author, think of the title. Sometimes this is entirely appropriate, as there was no time to do more, or everything else that was done was not worthy of being remembered, or what was once a whole body of work has died off, limb by limb, until just one evergreen remains.
Samuel Butler is read, if and when he still is, is this way. He has two books in any good bookstore. One or the other might be read in a classroom, though I can think of no class that might be made to read both. However he is read still, for me, he is an author whose other work has been worth rooting out as nothing I've found and read has been less than a pleasure to read. Wit is always worth reviving.
Why Samuel Butler? Because I found this essay and could not be better pleased to offer it here.