1
There’s force to this cold sun, makes beard stubble stand shinily. We
look, we pretend great things to our glass—rubbing our chin: This is a
profound comedian who grimaces deeds into slothful breasts. This is a
sleepy president, without followers save oak leaves—but their coats are
of the wrong color. This is a farmer—plowed a field in his dreams and
since that time—goes stroking the weeds that choke his furrows. This is a
poet left his own country—
* * * * *
_The simple expedient of a mirror has practical use for arranging the
hair, for observation of the set of a coat, etc. But as an exercise for
the mind the use of a mirror cannot be too highly recommended. Nothing
of a mechanical nature could be more conducive to that elasticity of
the attention which frees the mind for the enjoyment of its special
prerogatives._
2
A man can shoot his spirit up out of a wooden house, that is, through
the roof—the roof’s slate—but how far? It is of final importance to know
that. To say the world turns under my feet and that I watch it passing
with a smile is neither the truth nor my desire. But I would wish to
stand—you’ve seen the kingfisher do it—where the largest town might be
taken in my two hands, as high let us say as a man’s head—some one man
not too far above the clouds. What would I do then? Oh I’d hold my sleeve
over the sun awhile to make church bells ring.
* * * * *
_It is obvious that if in flying an airplane one reached such an altitude
that all sense of direction and every intelligible perception of the
world were lost there would be nothing left to do but to come down to
that point at which eyes regained their power._
Towels will stay in a heap—if the window’s shut and oil in a bottle—if
the cork’s there. But if the meat’s not cut to suit it’s no use rising
before sun up, you’ll never sweep the dust from these floors. Hide smiles
among the tall glasses in the cupboard, come back when you think the
trick’s done and you’ll find only dead flies there. It’s beyond hope. You
were not born of a Monday.
* * * * *
_There are divergences of humor that cannot be reconciled. A young woman
of much natural grace of manner and very apt at a certain color of lie
is desirous of winning the good graces of one only slightly her elder
but nothing comes of her exertions. Instead of yielding to a superficial
advantage she finally gives up the task and continues in her own delicate
bias of peculiar and beautiful design much to the secret delight of
the onlooker who is thus regaled by the spectacle of two exquisite and
divergent natures playing one against the other._
3
Hark! There’s laughter! These fight and draw nearer, we—fight and draw
apart. They know the things they say are true bothways, we miss the
joke—try to—Oh, try to. Let it go at that. There again! Real laughter. At
least we have each other in the ring of that music. “He saved a little
then had to go and die”. But isn’t it the same with all of us? Not at
all. Some laugh and laugh, with little grey eyes looking out through
the chinks—but not brown eyes rolled up in a full roar. One can’t have
everything.
* * * * *
_Going along an illworn dirt road on the outskirts of a mill town one
Sunday afternoon two lovers who have quarreled hear the loud cursing and
shouts of drunken laborers and their women, followed by loud laughter and
wish that their bodies were two fluids in the same vessel. Then they fall
to twitting each other on the many ways of laughing._