If You Can't Annoy Somebody, There Is

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

Only A World Without Love Strikes Me As Instantly And Decisively More Terrible Than One Without Music.

The World That Seemed So Various And New, Well, It Does Contract. One's Burning Desire To Investigate Human Behavior, And To Make, Or Imply, Statements About It, Does Fall Off. And So One Does Find That Early Works Are Full Of Energy And Also Full Of Vulgarity, Crudity, And Incompetence, And Later Works Are More Carefully Finished, And In That Sense Better Literary Products. But . . . There's Often A Freshness That Is Missing In Later Works--for Every Gain There's A Loss. I Think It Evens Out In That Way.

I Wish I Could Have A Little Tape-and-loudspeaker Arrangement Sewn Into The Binding Of This Magazine, To Be Triggered Off By The Light Reflected From The Reader's Eyes On To This Part Of The Page, And Set To Bawl Out At Several Bels: More Will Mean Worse.

When I Find Someone I Respect Writing About An Edgy, Nervous Wine That Dithered In The Glass, I Cringe. When I Hear Someone I Don't Respect Talking About An Austere, Unforgiving Wine, I Turn A Bit Austere And Unforgiving Myself. When I Come Across Stuff Like That And Remember About The Figs And Bananas, I Want To Snigger Uneasily. You Can Call A Wine Red, And Dry, And Strong, And Pleasant. After That, Watch Out.