Christmas Is Not A Season. It Is

Any Piece Of Furniture, I Don't Care How Beautiful It Is, Has Got To Be Lived With, And Kicked About, And Rubbed Down, And Mistreated By Servants, And Repolished, And Knocked Around And Dusted And Sat On Or Slept In Or Eaten Off Of Before It Develops Its Real Character ... A Good Deal Like Human Beings.

I Sat Staring Up At A Shelf In My Workroom From Which Thirty-one Books Identically Dressed In Neat Dark Green Leather Stared Back At Me With A Sort Of Cold Hostility Like Children Who Resent Their Parents. Don't Stare At Us Like That! They Said. Don't Blame Us If We Didn't Turn Out To Be The Perfection You Expected. We Didn't Ask To Be Brought Into The World.

In New York The Sky Is Bluer, And The Grass Is Greener, And The Girls Are Prettier, And The Steaks Are Thicker, And The Buildings Are Higher, And The Streets Are Wider, And The Air Is Finer, Than The Sky, Or The Grass, Or The Girls, Or The Steaks, Or The Air Of Any Place Else In The World.

But Almost Any Place Is Baghdad If You Don't Know What Will Happen In It.

Any Man Who Can Look Handsome In A Dirty Baseball Suit Is An Adonis. There Is Something About The Baggy Pants, And The Micawber-shaped Collar, And The Skull-fitting Cap, And The Foot Or So Of Tan, Or Blue, Or Pink Undershirt Sleeve Sticking Out At The Arms, That Just Naturally Kills A Man's Best Points.