The Wit Of A Graduate Student Is

I Came At Last To A Recognition Of Myself As, In Part, A Tom Sawyer Who Wanted Everything Done According To The Rules Of Romantic Fiction, And Complicated Simple Solutions With His Absurd Adolescent, Book-born Nonsense.

The Young Are Often Accused Of Exaggerating Their Troubles; They Do So, Very Often, In The Hope Of Making Some Impression Upon The Inertia And The Immovability Of The Selfish Old.

That Was What Stuck In The Craws Of All The Good Women Of Deptford: Mrs Dempster Had Not Been Raped, As A Decent Woman Would Have Been-no, She Had Yielded Because A Man Wanted Her. The Subject Was Not One That Could Be Freely Discussed Even Among Intimates, But It Was Understood Without Saying That If Women Began To Yield For Such Reasons As That, Marriage And Society Would Not Last Long. Any Man Who Spoke Up For Mrs Dempster Probably Believed In Free Love. Certainly He Associated Sex With Pleasure, And That Put Him In A Class With Filthy Thinkers Like Cece Athelstan.

Every Man Makes His Own Summer. The Season Has No Character Of Its Own, Unless One Is A Farmer With A Professional Concern For The Weather.

"children, Don't Speak So Coarsely," Said Mr Webster, Who Had A Vague Notion That Some Supervision Should Be Exercised Over His Daughters' Speech, And That A Line Should Be Drawn, But Never Knew Quite When To Draw It. He Had Allowed His Daughters To Use His Library Without Restraint, And Nothing Is More Fatal To Maidenly Delicacy Of Speech Than The Run Of A Good Library.