s everybody knows, or ought to know, what a Salmagundi is, we shall spare ourselves the trouble of an explanation—besides, we despise trouble as we do everything that is low and mean; and hold the man who would incur it unnecessarily, as an object worthy our highest pity and contempt. Neither will we puzzle our heads to give an account of ourselves, for two reasons; first, because it is nobody’s business; secondly, because if it were, we do not hold ourselves bound to attend to anybody’s business but our own; and even that we take the liberty of neglecting when it suits our inclination. To these we might add a third, that very few men can give a tolerable account of themselves, let them try ever so hard; but this reason, we candidly avow, would not hold good with ourselves.
With the introduction of tobacco England woke up from a long sleep. Men who had hitherto only concerned themselves with the narrow things of home put a pipe into their mouths and became philosophers. Poets and dramatists smoked until all ignoble ideas were driven from them. Petty jealousies no longer had hold of statesmen, who smoked, and agreed to work together for the public weal. Soldiers and sailors felt, when engaged with a foreign foe, that they were fighting for their pipes. The whole country was stirred by the ambition to live up to tobacco.
I took one long inspiration of the Egyptian cigarette. The grey-green smoke arose in a small puffy column that spread and broadened, that seemed to fill the room. I could see the maple leaves dimly, as if they were veiled in a shimmer of moonlight. A subtle, disturbing current passed through my whole body and went to my head like the fumes of disturbing wine. I took another deep inhalation of the cigarette.
"Coffee," Rossini told me, "is an affair of fifteen or twenty days; just the right amount of time, fortunately, to write an opera." This is true. But the length of time during which one can enjoy the benefits of coffee can be extended.
These photos, less famous than the subway shots that became Many Are Called, but nearly as impressive, were taken in the Summer of 1938 on 61st Street between 1st and 3rd Aves by Evans for the WPA.
Children of twenty-five, who have seven years experience, try to tell me what is a good cigar and what isn't. Me, who never learned to smoke, but always smoked; me, who came into the world asking for a light.
New York City has got a bigger population than most of the states in the Union. It's got more wealth than any dozen of them. Yet the people here, as I explained before, are nothin' but slaves of the Albany gang. We have stood the slavery a long, long time, but the uprisin' is near at hand. It will be a fight for liberty, just like the American Revolution. We'll get liberty peacefully if we can; by cruel war if we must.
"A naked woman and a dead dwarf; wealth and indifference. Poor dwarf!"
A not too modest glamor girl revealed to us some of her "smoking secrets": "I think it looks so much better to smoke with a holder. Don't you think I'm somewhat of a Latin type? I always have holders that are long and dark. I think a long holder is like a big hat: it's alluring and 'don't dare come close' at the same time."
I used to be all in favor of racial integration in principle. But I have been obliged to rethink my position. Sure, it's fun to play with black musicians. But who profits from it? Surely not the blacks.
"Upon my word!" cried the fool. "N.N., the notorious scoundrel! He swindled all his relations. Everyone knows that. You're quite behind the times."
"He went like that," Spade said, "like a fist when you open your hand."
Tolstoi said: "Religions are usually based on one of these three principles: on sentiment, reason, or illusion. Stoicism is an example of the religion of reason; Mormonism of illusion; Muhammadanism of sentiment."
Bedwarfed the man, o'ergrown the brute...