INTRODUCTION

      WHEN WILL CUPPY died, in September 1949, he had been working on this book, off and on, for sixteen years. During most of that time, of course, he was busy with other projects – a weekly column of reviews of mystery books for the New York Herald Tribune, pieces for various magazines, and a series of books on birds, mammals, reptiles, and fish.

      The first of these animal books, How to Tell Your Friends from the Apes, appeared in 1931 and set the pattern for the others that followed. Cuppy often complained that people kept asking him, “Don’t you ever write anything but little pieces about animals?”

      Here is the answer: all the time this was really the book he was most concerned about. At his death, he was well on his way toward finishing it.

      As published, The Decline and Fall of Practically Everybody includes chapters devoted to all the famous men and women of history Cuppy wanted to include. (He had worked on all, some at least in skeleton form, before his death.) A few general chapters are missing: he planned to set down his thoughts on where he stood on Betsy Ross, and various other topics which were, for Cuppy, matters of immediate moment. In their place his pieces on the humor and eating habits of the great have been added.

      Perhaps a note on how Cuppy worked would be of interest to his readers. First of all, before writing a line on any topic – or even thinking about what he might write – he would read every volume and article on the subject that he could find – including, in many cases, obscure books no longer available in this country. This was standard operating procedure, whether the topic in question was the Giant Ground Sloth or Catherine the Great.

      After having absorbed this exhaustive amount of material, he would make notes on little 3-by-5 index cards, which he would then file under the appropriate subheading in a cardfile box. Usually he would amass hundreds and hundreds of these cards in several boxes, before beginning to block out his piece. In some cases, he would read more than twenty-five thick volumes before writing a one-thousand-word piece. Cuppy felt that he must know his subject as thoroughly as was humanly possible before going to work on it.

      Sometimes Cuppy would stay in his Greenwich Village apartment for weeks at a time, having food sent in as needed. The apartment overflowed with books – in bookshelves along all living room walls right up to the ceiling, in his bedroom, and even in the kitchen – over the refrigerator, on top of the stove, and on the supply shelves.

      Usually his day would start in the late afternoon. After several cups of coffee, he was ready to start sorting cards, or writing notes to himself. He’d work until about eight or nine, then take a nap until midnight, when he’d fix himself dinner – generally hamburger, green peas, and coffee. While enjoying his second and third cups of coffee he would phone his few close friends – often his only contact with the outside world. Then back to work till five, six, seven, or