I Don't Know Where We're Going Or

I'm Half Scotch-irish On Both Sides, And When I Lose My Temper-brother, I Go.

The Dubious Privilege Of A Freelance Writer Is He’s Given The Freedom To Starve Anywhere.

A Basic Ingredient In The Manufacture Of Perfume, The Attar-a Heavy, Pale-yellow Oil Stored In Small Metal Drums-had Been Put Up As Collateral By Bulgaria, In Lieu Of Gold, At The Moscow Narodny Bank, A Communist Finance House For East-west Trade.

There Are Nineteen Words In Yiddish That Convey Gradations Of Disparagement, From A Mild, Fluttery Helplessness To A State Of Downright, Irreconcilable Brutishness. All Of Them Can Be Usefully Employed To Pinpoint The Kind Of Individuals I Write About.

Nature, It Appears, Has Been Rather More Bountiful To Paul's Body And Purse Than To His Intellect; Above The Ears, Speaking Bluntly, The Boy Is Strictly Tapioca.