The Misanthrope’s Corner

THE words “new neurosis” are oxy- moronic because the tics and twitches of humankind are eternal. They are also universal, so imagine my joy on finding a twofer: a virgin forest of deadly nightshade with a signpost reading “Only in America.”

It’s so new they don’t even have a name for it yet. Calling it “collecting” or “hoarding,” as two recent newspaper features did, is a pathetic understatement. The world has always had collectors—John Fowles wrote a bestselling novel about one—and there are so many people who never throw anything out that they long ago acquired a name: pack rats.

About the Author

Florence King

Florence King was a contributing editor of National Review.

THE words “new neurosis” are oxy- moronic because the tics and twitches of humankind are eternal. They are also universal, so imagine my joy on finding a twofer: a virgin forest of deadly nightshade with a signpost reading “Only in America.”

It’s so new they don’t even have a name for it yet. Calling it “collecting” or “hoarding,” as two recent newspaper features did, is a pathetic understatement. The world has always had collectors—John Fowles wrote a bestselling novel about one—and there are so many people who never throw anything out that they long ago acquired a name: pack rats.