Slang is a language that rolls up its sleeves, spits on its hands and goes to work.
There is no song to your singing.
Now I am here - now read me - give me a name.
Newspapers tell beforehand what is going to happen - maybe.
Often I look back and see that I had been many kinds of a fool-and that I had been happy in being this or that kind of fool.
God, let me remember all good losers.