Dear So Many Things,
When I read what I wrote you, I see air rushed out. It is as if, I watched the
train and took the breeze, out of town. I get the feeling, with certainty. Soon
you won't anymore, soon you will return the envelopes and I will be left only
your hands. I have accumulated evidence for this. It amounts to, what I saw was
my owned fault. The things we've left there for a while—I don't expect them,
going on what I've seen or where I've looked. Nod twice if you agree. Here's
to hoping we find an apparent glass to raise, recursive and diligent. Here's to
next time: We will be just a little lighter, a lot softer, and one fewer.
There is no character, howsoever good and fine, but it can be destroyed by
ridicule, howsoever poor and witless. Observe the ass, for instance: his
character is about perfect, he is the choicest spirit among all the humbler
animals, yet see what ridicule has brought him to. Instead of feeling
complimented when we are called an ass, we are left in doubt.
-- Mark Twain, "Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar"
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