A Minority Is Only Thought Of As

Berlin Is A Skeleton Which Aches In The Cold: It Is My Own Skeleton Aching. I Feel In My Bones The Sharp Ache Of The Frost In The Girders Of The Overhead Railway, In The Iron-work Of Balconies, In Bridges, Tramlines, Lamp-standards, Latrines. The Iron Throbs And Shrinks, The Stone And The Bricks Ache Dully, The Plaster Is Numb.

But Seriously, I Believe I'm A Sort Of Ideal Woman, If You Know What I Mean. I'm The Sort Of Woman Who Can Take Men Away From Their Wives, But I Could Never Keep Anybody For Long. And That's Because I'm The Type Which Every Man Imagines He Wants, Until He Gets Me; And Then He Finds He Doesn't Really, After All.

I Must Honor Those Who Fight Of Their Own Free Will, He Said To Himself. And I Must Try To Imitate Their Courage By Following My Path As A Pacifist, Wherever It Takes Me.

These Books Have Not Made George Nobler Or Better Or More Truly Wise. It Is Just That He Likes Listening To Their Voices, The One Or The Other, Acording To His Mood. He Misuses Them Quite Ruthlessly - Despite The Respectful Way He Has To Talk About Them In Public - To Put Him To Bed, To Take His Mind Off The Hands Of The Clock, To Relax The Nagging Of His Pyloric Spasm, To Gossip Him Out Of His Melancholy, To Trigger The Conditioned Reflexes Of His Colon.

Do You Think It Makes People Nasty To Be Loved? You Know It Doesn’t! Then Why Should It Make Them Nice To Be Loathed? While You’re Being Persecuted, You Hate What’s Happening To You, You Hate The People Who Are Making It Happen; You’re In A World Of Hate. Why, You Wouldn’t Recognize Love If You Met It! You’d Suspect Love! You’d Think There Was Something Behind It—some Motive—some Trick.