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In every American there is an air of incorrigible innocence, which seems to conceal a diabolical cunning.
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On occasions, after drinking a pint of beer at luncheon, there would be a flow into my mind with sudden and unaccountable emotion, sometimes a line or two of verse, sometimes a whole stanza, accompanied, not preceded by a vague notion of the poem which they were destined to form a part of.... I say bubble up because, so far as I could make out, the source of the suggestions thus proffered to the brain was the pit of the stomach.
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Three minutes thought would suffice to find this out but thought is irksome and three minutes is a long time.
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I, a stranger and afraid, in a world I never made.
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The mortal sickness of a mind too unhappy to be kind.
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