I remembered this morning that, a few weeks ago, I happened to mention here that I thought Max Beerbohm’s “Enoch Soames,” from his collection Seven Men, to be maybe the most amusing short story in English. If you have never read it (and, for that matter, even if you have), it is the tale of how an utterly talentless fin de siècle British “poet” who sells his soul to the devil in exchange for a quick journey one-hundred years into the future, to the reading room of the British Museum, where he hopes to find that his writings have at last been granted the appreciation denied them in his own time.
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