knox snooze

Succotash my Balzac, dipshiitake.

Uncle Billy

A friend of mine just pointed me to the Nobel Prize acceptance speech of William Faulkner in 1949. It's a pretty tasty little morsel. What have I learned?

"There is only the question: When will I be blown up?"

But I must depart with him on one point. He wants me to write of the heart, not of the glands. And I catch his meaning, but it has been my experience (and I am short on experience) that the beating of the heart is often made bearable through the functioning of the glands.
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