On the southern slope of Mount Parnassus, in an olive grove surrounding a gurgling spring, they gathered. Clad in snowy white raiment with laurel wreaths on their heads, they looked as they had in their prime. Though they fairly glowed with well-being, their visages retained those lines of sadness and experience that had made them who they were.
Yes, friends, Shelby Foote has ascended. Hand him his lyre.
You have to believe, after reading this, that newspaper readers are a patient, forgiving lot.