The only way I save myself from glaring inconsistency in my writing is that I make my pieces short. Very short. So short, in fact, that inconsistency is kind of impossible. But take any two pieces, especially those written far apart in time, and I turn out to be inconsistency incarnate, as I recently boasted in a slightly narrower contest (“Inconsistency Incarnate,” May 15, 2005). To tell the truth, this is how I like myself best. More, this is how I actually relish myself. I have thus visited the subject of inconsistency from 1978 to 2012, as a quick search through my magnum opus will demonstrate beyond any doubt. Hey, am I not saying that I am actually consistent to a fault!? Perish the thought. Consistency be damned.