Difficult Folk, These Women!

Once In 1919, When I Was Traveling At Night By Train, I Wrote A Short Story. In The Town Where The Train Stopped, I Took The Story To The Publisher Of The Newspaper Who Published The Story.

Azazello Begged Her Not To Worry, Assuring Her That He Had Seen Not Only Naked Women But Also Women With Their Skin Flayed Clean Off

You Are Not Dostoevsky,' Said The Woman... 'you Never Can Tell...' He Answered. 'dostoevsky Is Dead,' The Woman Said, A Bit Uncertainly. 'i Protest!' He Said With Heat, 'dostoevsky Is Immortal!

Punch A Man On The Nose, Kick An Old Man Downstairs, Shoot Somebody Or Any Old Thing Like That, That’s My Job. But Argue With Women In Love—no Thank You!

Allow Me To Inquire How Man Can Control His Own Affairs When He Is Not Only Incapable Of Compiling A Plan For Some Laughably Short Term Such As, Say, A Thousand Years, But Cannot Even Predict What Will Happen To Him Tomorrow?