I have a long and abiding interest in Oz. As a young child, I devoured book after book after book in the series. When L. Frank Baum died and was replaced by Ruth Plumly Thompson, I was perfectly happy: it meant I could continue to read about Oz. The joy was that it was endless. You could sink in and stay forever. The authorship was secondary. Although by the time Thompson gave it up and was replaced by a third writer, I, too, had had enough.
Gore Vidal asked, “Is it possible that Baum’s survival is due to the fact that he is not taught? That he is not, officially, Literature? If so, one must be careful not to murder Oz with exegesis.” Alas, there is an endless series of commentaries on The Wizard of Oz, both the book and the film. James Thurber, Ray Bradbury, and Salman Rushdie, not to mention countless unheralded scholars, have ignored Vidal’s advice.
