The Cat Is Domestic Only As Far

I Am Not Collecting Copies Of The Cheaper Editions Of Omar Khayyám. I Gave The Last Four That I Received To The Lift-boy, And I Like To Think Of Him Reading Them, With Fitzgerald's Notes, To His Aged Mother. Lift-boys Always Have Aged Mothers; Shows Such Nice Feeling On Their Part, I Think.

Whenever A Massacre Of Armenians Is Reported From Asia Minor, Every One Assumes That It Has Been Carried Out "under Orders" From Somewhere Or Another; No One Seems To Think That There Are People Who Might Like To Kill Their Neighbours Now And Then.

There May Have Been Disillusionments In The Lives Of The Medieval Saints, But They Would Scarcely Have Been Better Pleased If They Could Have Foreseen That Their Names Would Be Associated Nowadays Chiefly With Racehorses And The Cheaper Clarets.

There Was Something Alike Terrifying And Piteous In The Spectacle Of These Frail Old Morsels Of Humanity Consecrating Their Last Flickering Energies To The Task Of Making Each Other Wretched. Hatred Seemed To Be The One Faculty Which Had Survived In Undiminished Vigor Where All Else Was Dropping Into Ordered And Symmetrical Decay.

I Love Americans, But Not When They Try To Talk French. What A Blessing It Is That They Never Try To Talk English.