The Censorious Said She Slept In A

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 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.

Every Reformation Must Have Its Victims. You Can’t Expect The Fatted Calf To Share The Enthusiasm Of The Angels Over The Prodigal’s Return.

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.

A Beautifully Constructed Borshch, Such As You Are Going To Experience Presently, Ought Not Only To Banish Conversation But Almost To Annihilate Thought.