John Methuselah

I, METHUSELAH

George W. Methuselah, that is.

I, the oldest man of all time, am setting down my story here. Not in hieroglyphics, mind you, for I am no draftsman and these chisels and rocks are an awkward medium. (And Dear Reader, I assure you my tale is not as heavy at its manuscript!) No, I have chosen English, because French, Spanish, and German haven’t come into being yet. The reason why I didn’t choose Esperanto is contained herein.

Here, for your edification, are my memories of my great, great, great grandfather and grandmother Adam and his Madam. (Eve, that is!) The true story of Cain and Abel? Look no further!

And you’ll want to hear the story of how my father, Enoch, named me. As Granpa Adam might have said, it’s a rib-tickler!

You’ll be treated to my poetry, the genuine tale of my son Noah and that damp business with the Ark and . . .

But enough! You’re not getting any younger! Read! Enjoy. already!