I have not actually known Thurber for sixty years, since he was only sixty-two on his last birthday, but the publishers of this volume felt that ‘sixty’ would sound more effective than ‘sixty-two’ in the title of an introduction to so large a book, a point which I was too tired to argue about.
James Thurber was born on a night of wild portent and high wind in the year 1894, at 147 Parsons Avenue, Columbus, Ohio. The house, which is still standing, bears no tablet or plaque of any description, and is never pointed out to visitors. Once Thurber’s mother, walking past the place with an old lady from Fostoria, Ohio, said to her, ‘My son James was born in that house, ‘ to which the old lady, who was extremely deaf, replied, ‘Why, on the Tuesday morning train, unless my sister is worse.’ Mrs. Thurber let it go at that.
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