Mark Twain born under the comet’s waning light in 1835, died at its next passage seventy-six years later. But the vast majority of us get only one chance—or none at all. So we celebrate and, if intellectually inclined, we also cerebrate. If any natural happening ever received more than its merited share of written attention, we can only nominate the return of Halley’s comet in 1986, especially since that miserable iceball mocked our long anticipation by putting on such a poor show. I therefore fully intended to ignore both Mr. Halley and his cursed comet in the monthly essays that form the basis for this series of books. But, as good intentions so often succumb to pervasive temptation, I confess that I was drawn to the man by a curious omission or underplaying that I detected in the flood of articles written about Halley in the light (hmm!) of his namesake’s return. We are all parochial at heart and tend to view wide-ranging geniuses like Halley as members of our own fraternity, even for limited contributions.
