Henrietta Haribush

Ladies and gentlemen, my dear friends (and enemies - though there are fewer of you than before), I promised you a novel. I said I might disguise myself as a woman. However, you know me as a man, and I’m afraid you may be unable to switch your image to a woman, because Henrietta is, after all, the invention of a man, namely me. If she sometimes speaks with my voice, forgive her. It’s in her genes. Should she appear to have somewhat masculine attitudes, remember, she was raised by a single male parent.

I have endowed her with life and a mind of her own. But you know how kids are, unbeknownst to them, and quite out of their control, no matter how hard Mom and/or Dad has tried to prevent it, they take on the protective coloration of their parents, even the combinations that they don’t themselves care for. Pity us poor human animals. We grow first by imitation. Any rococo trim we thenceforth apply is flimsy, transparent, and capable of being shattered in a Nanosecond.

All right, all right. I’m standing here like Daddy, in the wings, waiting for his darling little daughter to trip out onto the dancing school stage.

Let the curtain rise. I give you Henrietta Haribush and Come Together Now, her adult (and very present) novel.