America saw Mark Twain.
Samuel Langhorne Clemens became Mark Twain: river pilot, printer, lecturer, traveller, novelist and one of the sharpest public voices of his age. The white suit and unruly hair became a trademark, but the wit was more than costume. Twain could compress pomposity, dishonesty and human folly into a sentence that seemed inevitable once he had said it.
That gift produced a peculiar afterlife. A line only has to sound mischievous, sceptical or perfectly barbed and Twain’s name soon appears beneath it. He became not merely a writer of quotations, but a magnet for other people’s.
The death notice is different. Here the event was real, the response was his—and the familiar quotation still changed on its journey into folklore.

