For your eyesight and your patience, that neither runs out in this lifetime, even though you have to correct the word hopefully used at the opening of a sentence the for one-thousandth time, but who’s bitter? For your meticulous care, that it not turn into mania, and leave you mumbling and gibbering as you walk along the street correcting the names on people’s mailboxes and correcting the typos in the newspaper in the office break room and going over old love letters from your wife and making suggested changes in red ink in the margins and then offering them to her for possible updating. For attentiveness to clarity that does not entail wholesale slashing and cutting of entire sections and passages of manuscripts because they do not rise to the level of Robert Louis Stevenson’s prose, because who could? For a bemused amusement rather than apoplectic fury when writers do not use the serial comma, or refer to their own experience as ostensible proof and evidence for a thesis, or write nothing but self-absorbed muck, or fawning essays about their satanic cats, or endless lunatic screeds proving beyond the shadow of a doubt that Jesus was Australian.