Whatever People Think I Am Or Say

The Art Of Writing Is To Explain The Complications Of The Human Soul With The Simplicity That Can Be Universally Understood.

For It Was Saturday Night, The Best And Bingiest Glad-time Of The Week, One Of The Fifty-two Holidays In The Slow-turning Big Wheel Of The Year, A Violent Preamble To A Prostrate Sabbath. Piled Up Passions Were Exploded On Saturday Night, And The Effect Of A Week's Monotonous Graft In The Factory Was Swilled Out Of Your System In A Burst Of Goodwill. You Followed The Motto Of 'be Drunk And Be Happy,' Kept Your Crafty Arms Around Female Waists, And Felt The Beer Going Beneficially Down Into The Elastic Capacity Of Your Guts.

If You Went Through Life Refusing All The Bait Dangled In Front Of You, That Would Be No Life At All. No Changes Would Be Made And You Would Have Nothing To Fight Against. Life Would Be Dull As Ditchwater.

All I'm Out For Is A Good Time - All The Rest Is Propaganda.

I Realized It Might Be Possible To Do Such A Thing, Run For Money, Trot For Wages On Piece Work At A Bob A Puff Rising Bit By Bit To A Guinea A Gasp And Retiring Through Old Age At Thirty-two Because Of Lace-curtain Lungs, A Football Heart, And Legs Like Varicose Beanstalks.