Outside Every Fat Man There Is An

Whatever Part Drink May Play In The Writer's Life, It Must Play None In His Or Her Work.

It Scored Right Away With Me By Being The Smooth, Fine-grained Sort, Not The Coarse Flaky, Dry-on-the-outside Rubbish Full Of Chunds Of Gut And Gristle To Testify To Its Authenticity.

Work Was Like Cats Were Supposed To Be: If You Disliked And Feared It And Tried To Keep Out If Its Way, It Knew At Once And Sought You Out And Jumped On Your Lap And Climbed All Over You To Show How Much It Loved You. Please God, He Thought, Don't Let Me Die In Harness.

Wives And Such Are Constantly Filling Up Any Refrigerator They Have A Claim On, Even Its Ice-compartment, With Irrelevant Rubbish Like Food.

Feeling A Tremendous Rakehell, And Not Liking Myself Much For It, And Feeling Rather A Good Chap For Not Liking Myself Much For It, And Not Liking Myself At All For Feeling Rather A Good Chap.