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To work hard, to live hard, to die hard, and then go to hell after all would be too damn hard.
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Our lives are like a candle in the wind.
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Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo. Shovel them under and let me work— I am the grass; I cover all.
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History is a living horse laughing at a wooden horse. History is a wind blowing where it listeth. History is no sure thing to bet on. History is a box of tricks with a lost key. History is a labyrinth of doors with sliding panels, a book of ciphers with the code in a cave of the Saragossa sea. History says, if it pleases, Excuse me, I beg your pardon, it will never happen again if I can help it.
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Here is the difference between Dante, Milton, and me. They wrote about hell and never saw the place. I wrote about Chicago after looking the town over for years and years.
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