Born today was Charles Lamb.
A writer who must have said, "How lucky I am!"
For had he not suffered from bibliophilia
He'd never have written the Essays of Elia.*
*The pen name Lamb adopted for his essays.
Warning: The following excerpt from Lamb's "Dissertation on a Roast Pig" if read too often may cause clogging of the arteries.
"There is no flavour comparable, I will contend, to that of the crisp, tawny, well-watched, not over-roasted, crackling, as it is well called -- the very teeth are invited to their share of the pleasure at this banquet in overcoming the coy, brittle resistance -- with the adhesive oleaginous -- O call it not fat -- but an indefinable sweetness growing up to it -- the tender blossoming of fat -- fat cropped in the bud -- taken in the shoot -- in the first innocence -- the cream and quintessence of the child-pig's yet pure food -- the lean, no lean, but a kind of animal manna -- or, rather, fat and lean (if it must be so) so blended and running into each other, that both together make but one ambrosian result, or common substance."