A Father Is A Man Who Fails

I Don't Do A Lot Of Foisting, Because When It Comes To Books I Don't Really Like To Be Foisted Upon.

Dr. Roboy, In Litvak's Measured View, Had A Vice Common To Believers: He Was All Strategy And No Tactics. He Was Prone To Move For The Sake Of Moving, Too Focused On The Goal To Bother With The Intervening Sequence.

That Evening I Rode Downtown On An Unaccountably Empty Bus, Sitting In The Last Row. At The Front I Saw A Thin Cloud Of Smoke Rising Around The Driver’s Head. ‘hey, Bus Driver,’ I Said. ‘can I Smoke?’ ‘may I,’ Said The Bus Driver. ‘i Love You,’ I Said.

Poor Little Librarians Of The World, Those Girls, Secretly Lovely, Their Looks Marred Forever By The Cruelty Of A Pair Of Big Dark Eyeglasses!

It Drains The Bars And Cafes After Hours, Concentrates The Wicked And The Guilty Along Its Chipped Formica Counter, And Thrums With The Gossip Of Criminals, Policemen, Shtarkers,and Schlemiels, Whores And Night Owls ... Three Or Four Floaters, Solitaries, And Drunks Between Benders Lean Against The Sparkly Resin Counter, Sucking The Tea From Their Shtekelehs And Working The Calulations Of Their Next Big Mistake.