Even The Wicked Get Worse Than They

Paris Is A Hard Place To Leave, Even When It Rains Incessantly And One Coughs Continually From The Dampness.

Alcohol Is Perfectly Consistent In Its Effects Upon Man. Drunkenness Is Merely An Exaggeration. A Foolish Man Drunk Becomes Maudlin; A Bloody Man, Vicious; A Coarse Man, Vulgar.

This Land Was An Enigma. It Was Like A Horse That No One Knows How To Break To Harness, That Runs Wild And Kicks Things To Pieces.

He Had Been To See Mrs. Erlich Just Before Starting Home For The Holidays, And Found Her Making German Christmas Cakes. She Took Him Into The Kitchen And Explained The Almost Holy Traditions That Governed This Complicated Cookery. Her Excitement And Seriousness As She Beat And Stirred Were Very Pretty, Claude Thought. She Told Off On Her Fingers The Many Ingredients, But He Believed There Were Things She Did Not Name: The Fragrance Of Old Friendships, The Glow Of Early Memories, Belief In Wonder-working Rhymes And Songs.

I Kept As Still As I Could. Nothing Happened. I Did Not Expect Anything To Happen. I Was Something That Lay Under The Sun And Felt It, Like The Pumpkins, And I Did Not Want To Be Anything More. I Was Entirely Happy. Perhaps We Feel Like That When We Die And Become A Part Of Something Entire, Whether It Is Sun And Air, Or Goodness And Knowledge. At Any Rate, That Is Happiness; To Be Dissolved Into Something Complete And Great. When It Comes To One, It Comes As Naturally As Sleep.