A couple of people have had trouble with the link, so here is the text of my essay. A couple of disclaimers: 1)Just trust me that my original essay was much more poignant, funny, and original before the newspaper editors started hacking it to microscopic bits; and 2)The editors are the ones who added the "The" to the title of Huck! Had I made that mistake, my claim on Twain would be dubious... 3)Originally I mentioned TWAIN-L (which I've subscribed to for many years now), giving you folks specific, special permission to use Twain quotations and visit Twain's old homes; and 4)My preferred title was "My Mark Twain," which would be better for reasons most of you know. Enjoy! Scott Twain is mine; find your own author by Scott Dalrymple [originally appeared in The Wichita Eagle, 1/18/02] I watched Ken Burns' documentary "Mark Twain" this week on public television, and I couldn't be grumpier. Not that the subject of Twain makes me grumpy -- quite the opposite. I own shelves full of Twain-related books, and whenever I move I always unpack them first -- the truest sign of which books you love most. The quality of the documentary was fine. The program included notable Twain scholars with an excellent command of the facts, and some real insights into the author. To understand why I was grumpy, you must know that I recently had a similar response upon visiting Twain's childhood home: Hannibal, Mo. The tiny house where young Sam Clemens lived is now a tiny museum, supplemented by a couple of associated, emergency- backup museums nearby. Twain's image is everywhere: on road signs, in shop windows and in tourism brochures. For a few bucks, you can buy Mark Twain playing cards, Mark Twain thimbles and Mark Twain hooded sweat shirts. As I shuttled through the many Twain venues in Hannibal, I was overwhelmed by a powerful feeling. The feeling wasn't one of wonder, or respect, or even interest. It wasn't a sense of awe while touching some of the same things Twain himself touched, or while walking the same paths he walked. It also wasn't disgust at the commercialization of Twain. Twain never minded using his own name to make a buck, and I suspect he would get a charge out of seeing Mark Twain Mobile Home Sales. What, then, was this unshakable feeling? Jealousy. Truth be told, I secretly resent the other people who flock to Hannibal and other Twain shrines each year, and I bristle whenever Twain appears on television. Why? I'm sorry to break this to the rest of the world, but Twain's books were written, quite specifically, for me. Twain is clearly speaking directly to me, and to no one else. We never met, of course. Yet somehow, across the years, we share an unmistakable personal connection. There are scenes in "The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn" that affect me more than anyone else could possibly be affected, and jokes in "A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court" that no one else could possibly get. Twain knows me, and I him. Understanding this, you can see why I get jealous when others act as if they, too, have some sort of deep, personal bond with my favorite author. Would you like millions of complete strangers professing a deep, personal bond with your spouse or your grandfather? So forget the notion that literature is meant to be shared, to bring us all closer together, to save the world, blah blah blah. Twain is mine. Go find your own author. -----------------------------------------------------Scott Dalrymple of Andover is chairman of the business administration department at Southwestern College in Winfield. __________________________________________________ Do You Yahoo!? Send FREE video emails in Yahoo! Mail! http://promo.yahoo.com/videomail/