Farewell to Moristotle & Co.

By Michael H. Brownstein

A man walked into my home, took a left down the short hallway, entered the living room, and sat down on our old—but comfortable—sofa.
    Mind if I come in? he asked.
    Who are you? my wife answered.
    You’re already in, I said.
    Mind if I sit down? he asked.
    Who are— My wife started to respond. Never mind. We’re getting ready for lunch. Before you decide to join us, would you like to join us for lunch?
    I thought that was an awfully long question, but I did not say a word.

That never happened, but every now and then, I imagine meeting Morris Dean under a variety of circumstances. I have never met him, but I’d like to think this is one of the ways we might meet.
    In the hall of fame of editors, Morris has his own display case.
    He is brilliant.
    In the hall of fame of editors, Morris has his own wall.
    He is smart, intuitive, and—well, I guess this is another way of saying he is brilliant.
    In the hall of fame of editors, Morris has his own room.
    He is considerate, witty, and, of course, brilliant.
    In the hall of fame for editors, Morris has his own wing.
    He has made me a better writer because he is a writer’s writer—and he has left a tattoo on me because, well, he is very smart and very much engaged in what he does and has done.
    In the hall of fame of editors, Morris has the Morris Dean of Editors Building in development right this very moment in fourteen states, two territories, and four nations around the world.

Morris, when you come back from your travels, you and your wife are always welcome to come to the middle of our country to visit me and my family—and we’ll have lunch waiting. You won’t even have to knock.
    Good luck on your next endeavors. May they touch everyone you encounter the way Moristotle touched me.

Copyright © 2023 by Michael H. Brownstein