It is not upon you alone the dark patches fall....
I too knitted the old knot of contrariety,
Had guile, anger, lust, hot wishes I dared not speak,
Was wayward, vain, greedy, shallow, sly, cowardly, malignant....
Refusals, hates, postponements, meanness, laziness, none of these
wanting,
Saw many I loved in the street or ferry-boat or public assembly, yet
never told them a word.
--Whitman’s “Crossing Brooklyn Ferry.”
The secret thoughts of a man run over all things without shame or
blame; which verbal discourse cannot do farther than the judgment
shall approve of the time, place, and persons.--Hobbes’s “Leviathan.”
I was coming home from Buffalo in a train delightfully called “The
Black Diamond.” I had any number of books in my bag, but my lower
instincts were uppermost: I was tired, and pined for the narcosis of
newspapers. I asked the porter, also a black diamond, to see if there
were any lying around. He brought me a great mass of them: Chicago
papers, Buffalo papers, Wilkes-Barre papers. With great happiness I
browsed among their cheerful simplicities. From Wilkes-Barre I learned
that
Shakespeare’s marvellous plays could never have been written by a
dyspeptic. He ate carefully, sensibly, and had excellent digestion.
(I had just come back from the dining car when I read that, and
wondered a little sadly if I had been sensible.)
From Chicago (“The World’s Greatest Newspaper”) I learned, in an
article on “A Perfume to Suit Your Personality,” that
The vampire had best be sparing in her use of any odour. An oriental
bouquet of jasmine, tube rose, cassie, and civet would enhance the
individuality of the colourful type. For a perfume combination of
this sort when used correctly can create a sensation akin to ecstasy,
bringing to the wearer a feeling of tremendous vitality.
But in this Chicago paper I found so much to perpend that I never
reached the journals of other cities. I learned in an interview with
Lady Diana Manners (“Pressed for Precious Secrets of Pulchritude, She
Reveals a Surprising Lack of Them”) that
The life of a newspaper person is not without its recompenses--aside
from the weekly stipend. Sometimes it is a hard life--when, say, you
scratch and pound upon the old dome, pleading, begging its tenant,
Mr. Brain, to give up an idea, and you get in response a loud and
hollow echo convincing you he has left for parts unknown!