And I don't mean the witch doctors . . .

After a week filled to the gills with the sketching out of one book, the second revision of another, the last gasps of a third, and the first tremblings of a fourth, I've got, as they say, nothin'.

Except this little nugget from a pleasant little book I picked up by John Malcolm Brinnin about his friend Truman; this here bit from 1948; will let TC have the last word:

"How was Haiti?" I asked as we were shown to the table he'd reserved.

"Almost died," he said. "Some kind of jungle fever so...