When Jan and I first moved to New England she decided she wanted to go and put a rose on Henry James’ grave. I went along taking my own rose for William James. (As a special bonus, when we arrived at the James family gravesite in the Cambridge graveyard, we discovered only a few feet away the marker for the (perhaps last) great Unitarian Universalist theologian James Luther Adams)
They said of the James boys that one wrote like a novelist and the other like a psychologist.
The one who wrote like a novelist was born on this day in 1842.
We owe him much.
May his grave be strewn with roses…
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