Google believes Daniel Silliman’s uncle Ron to be the definition of compleat.

[aw-thos, aw-thohs,awth-os, - ohs]
- noun
The disposition, character, or fundamental values peculiar to a specific writer, genre, or literary movement.

Do you, Dear and Gentle Reader, know any writer whose authos is defined by joy. Do you know any writer who is compelled to write because he is held hostage by happiness? Maybe when I ask this question, it is because I think of joy as glib cheerfulness, which I know it is not but am too lazy to really understand it otherwise, but it seems to me that the people I know who write - the people that I enjoy reading - rarely seem to have a joyous authos. When I feel joyful, I’ll tell stories, but I don’t write them. What say you?

Update: Though it may not seem this way, I am following all these comments with great interest. We’ve been out of town, and now we’re at my parents house for a few days, so it will be a little while before I can bring my replies. Thanks to everyone who’s chimed in, especially new commenters like Lonnie, Caleb, and Tala. (Btw, Lonnie, I wholly sympathize with your sentiments on Tolstoy and Dostoevsky, and I second Tala’s recommendation of Marilynne Robinson. )

Go take a look at the official Margaret Wise Brown web site – quite a mysterious, flamboyant, fascinating woman, not quite the sort that you would assume authored some of the best loved children’s books.

Life of Pi.

Title: Touch Me, My Gargoyle Heart…
Artist: Carol Bomer
Date: 2005
Medium: Charcoal/Graphite
Dimensions: 30×36 in
Creation Place: Deep South

Sunday Service at the Home for the Incurables

Idiots
Misfits
Drooling fools
And spastics:

Forgive my wretched poise
and tidy clothes
and manners acquired
from much church
and so little rubbing
into your palsy and piss
and men asleep from birth
living in cribs.

Undo
me
dear
incurables singing
“My Jesus” in slapstick,
your hands with minds
of their own
shaking praise.

Moving in your midst
a tender light,
a love unkempt

And blind waits on you
singly, touching
each ragged grief, each

Buried rage and sings
your circus hymns
with reverence,
as one who well knows
the pograms of fools.

Touch me, my gargoyle
heart, and make
me
crow.

By Suzanne Clark