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.

Bad Writing Is Bad Not Just Because The Language Is Humdrum, But The Quality Of The Observation Is So Poor.

But Your Book Is Wrong, Mrs. Strunk, Says George, When It Tells You That Jim Is The Substitute I Found For A Real Son, A Real Kid Brother, A Real Husband, A Real Wife. Jim Wasn't A Substitute For Anything. And There Is No Substitute For Jim, If You'll Forgive My Saying So, Anywhere.

In Ten Minutes They Will Have Arrived On Campus. George Will Have To Be George; The George They Have Named And Will Recognise. So Now He Consciously Applies Himself To Thinking Their Thoughts, Getting Into Their Mood. With The Skill Of A Veteran, He Rapidly Puts On The Psychological Makeup For This Role He Must Play.

The Town Is An Advertisement For Itself; None Of Its Charms Are Left To The Visitor's Imagination.