Please, step into my gentleman’s library. I don’t leave its leather-bound confines these days, and to receive a visitor is a rare treat indeed. Please, please, don’t be shy. Wipe your boots on the sable fur mat, set your cane in the well and cross the threshold to my kingdom.

Pray, sit down. Make yourself at home. Hang your hat on the elk antlers, the bronzed rhino horn, wherever you like. My gentleman’s library is your gentleman’s library. Only I must ask that you not remove the laminate on the sofa. We’ve been told it’s not gentlemanly. Don’t mind that shriveled woman there. She’s sound asleep. Simply pretend she’s not there. Instead, turn your gaze upon the marvels of my collection. What you see before you are the spoils of lifelong travel and the learned discernments of a private scholar. These mounted heads are trophies from my big game hunts on the Dark Continent. That folio there is the erotic diary of a 17th-century courtesan in the sultan of Brunei’s harem, a gift from the sultan himself. And here, adjacent to the wonder cabinet, betwixt my astrolabe and the collected works of Hume, is an original medical prescription written for John Milton’s gout.

For these treasures, I entangled myself in innumerable romances and intrigues round the globe. But I eventually grew weary of the world of men and retreated to the sanctuary of this library. Like the immortal Montaigne, I have consecrated the rest of my days to a life of the mind. If you look at the mantel, above the busts of Plutarch and Carlyle, you’ll see that I have inscribed for all posterity my vow to pursue knowledge strictly within these hallowed walls.

This vow has been notarized and carries with it the authority of the state of Indiana. Impressive, you say? Well, not only did the local government endorse my scholarly reclusion, they even honored me with a flashing jeweled bracelet to commemorate the deed. I have been instructed to wear it here, just below my sock garter and directly above my spats, and never to remove it. Fetching, isn’t it?

Behold, next to the fireplace, a complete collection of all knowledge, bound in gilded leather, befitting of a man of my station. Every luminous pearl of wisdom from Heraclitus to Hegel–oh, forgive me. How rude I have been. I entirely forgot to offer you a beverage. And you must be terribly thirsty. I believe we have some claret in the cellar. Just a moment.

“Grandma, wake up! He-llo, Grandma! Up and at ‘em! Can’t you see I have a guest and that we’re both beyond parched? Be a dear and fetch us some claret from the cellar.”

“Now, Clarence, you know you’re not supposed to have visitors. The judge was very clear about that.”

“Grandma, please don’t tell me what to do when you’re in my gentleman’s library. That’s one of the rules.”

“Well, I thought we also agreed you weren’t going to fuss with my Reader’s Digests. Please put them back next to the fireplace before they get bent. Also, what did I tell you about putting your rocks in the linen closet?”

“You mean the wonder cabinet.”

“Sure. And, for the last time, stop writing ‘Collected Works of Hume’ on my Dan Koontz books.”

“Grandma! Just fetch the claret, would you?”

I’m sorry. She’s totally senile. I tried barricading her in the bedroom, but then I realized there would be no one to cook and tend to the scullery. After all, a gentleman must have his victuals. Now let me show you my volumes of Voltaire.

“Clarence, I didn’t see any drink called claret in the fridge. Just your usual Grape Tang. Now, make sure your friend doesn’t spill any on the sofa. That laminate is hard to clean.”

“I know, Grandma! Now would you mind–we’re trying to have an intellectual conversation about Voltaire.”

“Clarence, you know what the psychiatrist said. That Voltaire is what got you into all this mess in the first place.”

“I was just fighting for enlightenment against the blackguard clergy.”

“You exposed yourself to a nun, while shouting lewdly in French.”

“There’s nothing lewd about ‘ecrasez l’infame,’ Grandma.”

“There is when your wiener is hanging out.”

“Grandma, go to your room! You’re embarrassing me in my gentleman’s library!”

“You and your friend can visit until four, Clarence. Then my programs come on. Make sure you un-tape those cardboard animal heads from the TV by then.”

“Fine, Grandma, whatever. Just leave us alone.”

“Oh, one more thing, Clarence. Have you seen my gout prescription from Dr. Milton? I can’t find it anywhere.”

“I have no idea where it is, Grandma.”

I really must apologize. She’s quite the philistine. What’s that? You have to go? What a shame. Now, what was that you mentioned at the door about selling cookies? Never mind? Oh well, you can tell me about it next time.