Gossip, Or, As We Gossips Like To

Boston - Wrinkled, Spindly-legged, Depleted Of Nearly All Her Spiritual And Cutaneous Oils, Provincial, Self-esteeming - Has Gone On Spending And Spending Her Inflated Bills Of Pure Reputation, Decade After Decade.

The Future May Be An Enemy. Time Can Turn Happy Days And Nights Into Nothing.

Sex Can No Longer Be The Germ, The Seed Of Fiction. Sex Is An Episode, Most Properly Conveyed In An Episodic Manner, Quickly, Often Ironically. It Is A Bursting Forth Of Only One Of The Cells In The Body Of The Omnipotent I, The One Who Hopes By Concentration Of Tone And Voice To Utter The Sound Of Reality.

The Greatest Gift Is A Passion For Reading. It Is Cheap, It Consoles, It Distracts, It Excites, It Gives You Knowledge Of The World And Experience Of A Wide Kind. It Is A Moral Illumination.

Harvard (across The River In Cambridge) And Boston Are Two Ends Of One Mustache. ... Without The Faculty, The Visitors, The Events That Harvard Brings To The Life Here, Boston Would Be Intolerable To Anyone Except Genealogists, Antique Dealers, And Those Who Find Repletion In A Closed Local Society.