If There Were One More Thing I

I Do Not Think That I Could Ever Really Love A Woman Who Had Not, At One Time Or Another, Been Up On A Broomstick.

In Those Days I Had Various Strong Inclinations, For Wine, Gambling And Cockfighting, And The Society Of Gypsies, Together With A Passion For Theological Discussion Which I Had Inherited From My Father Himself-all Of Which My Father Thought I Had Better Rid Myself Of Before I Married.

Where A Pack Of Monkeys Had Traveled Over The Road, The Smell Of Them Lingered For A Long Time In The Air, A Dry And Stale, Mousy Smell.

Humanity Has Made A Great Error In Seizing On A Certain Moment, No More Intrinsically Notable Than Any Other Moment And Has Called It Birth. The Habit Of Honoring One Single Instant Of The Universal Process To The Disadvantage Of Other Instants Has Done More, Perhaps, Than Anything To Obfuscate The Crystal Clearness Of The Fundamental Flux.

What Is Life When You Come To Think Upon It, But A Most Excellent, Accurately Set, Infinitely Complicated Machine For Turning Fat Playful Puppies Into Old Mangy Blind Dogs, And Proud War Horses Into Skinny Nags, And Succulent Young Boys, To Whom The World Holds Great Delights And Terrors, Into Old Weak Men, With Running Eyes, Who Drink Ground Rhino-horn?