There Seems To Be No

But Ice-crunching And Loud Gum-chewing, Together With Drumming On Tables, And Whistling The Same Tune 70 Times In Succession, Because They Indicate An Indifference On The Part Of The Perpetrator To The Rest Of The World In General, Are Not Only Registered On The Delicate Surfaces Of The Brain But Eat Little Holes In It Until It Finally Collapses Or Blows Up.

A Child Of Three Cannot Raise Its Chubby Fist To Its Mouth To Remove A Piece Of Carpet Which It Is Through Eating, Without Being Made The Subject Of A Psychological Seminar Of Child-welfare Experts, And Written Up, Along With Five Hundred Other Children Of Three Who Have Put Their Hands To Their Mouths For The Same Reason.

Next To An Old-fashioned Church Social, Or Possibly A Monster Bridge Party, There Is No Buzz Which Can Equal The Sibilant Buzz Ofa Matinée.

A Man Of Forty Today Has Nothing To Worry Him But Falling Hair, Inability To Button The Top Button, Failing Vision, Shortness Of Breath, A Tendency Of The Collar To Shut Off All Breathing, Trembling Of The Kidneys To Whatever Tune The Orchestra Is Playing, And A General Sense Of Giddiness When The Matter Of Rent Is Brought Up. Forty Is Life's Golden Age.

I Know I'm Drinking Myself To A Slow Death, But Then I'm In No Hurry.