The world, that understandable and lawful world, was slipping away.
Life should serve up its feast of experience in a series of courses.
The writer probably knows what he meant when he wrote a book, but he should immediately forget what he meant when he's written it.
Kill the pig! Cut his throat! Kill the pig! Bash him in!
No human endeavour can ever be wholly good... it must always have a cost.
Which is better -- to be a pack of painted Indians like you are, or to be sensible like Ralph is? Which is better -- to have rules and agree, or to hunt and kill? Which is better, law and rescue, or hunting and breaking things up?