It Seems To Me That The Real

In The Eternal Lazy Morning Of The Pacific, Days Slip Away Into Months, Months Into Years; The Seasons Are Reduced To The Faintest Nuance By The Great Central Fact Of The Sunshine; One Might Pass A Lifetime, It Seems, Between Two Yawns, Lying Bronzed And Naked In The Sand.

The Quito Telephone Service Is About As Reliable As Roulette.

These Books Have Not Made George Nobler Or Better Or More Truly Wise. It Is Just That He Likes Listening To Their Voices, The One Or The Other, Acording To His Mood. He Misuses Them Quite Ruthlessly - Despite The Respectful Way He Has To Talk About Them In Public - To Put Him To Bed, To Take His Mind Off The Hands Of The Clock, To Relax The Nagging Of His Pyloric Spasm, To Gossip Him Out Of His Melancholy, To Trigger The Conditioned Reflexes Of His Colon.

I Am A Camera, With Its Shutter Open. Someday, All Of This Will Be Developed, Printed, Fixed.

Someone Has To Ask You A Question," George Continues Meaningly, "before You Can Answer It. But It's So Seldom You Find Anyone Who'll Ask The Right Questions. Most People Aren't That Much Interested.