Against work itself, I say nothing. But I sometimes wonder
if I stand alone in this thing. Am I the _only_ person
left who hates it?
Nor is work all. Take food. I admit, here and now, that
the lunch I like best--I mean for an ordinary plain lunch,
not a party--is a beef steak about one foot square and
two inches thick. Can I work on it? No, I can't, but I
can work in spite of it. That is as much as one used to
ask, twenty-five years ago.
Yet now I find that all my friends boast ostentatiously
about the meagre lunch they eat. One tells me that he
finds a glass of milk and a prune is quite as much as he
cares to take. Another says that a dry biscuit and a
glass of water is all that his brain will stand. One
lunches on the white of an egg. Another eats merely the
yolk. I have only two friends left who can eat a whole
egg at a time.
I understand that the fear of these men is that if they
eat more than an egg or a biscuit they will feel heavy
after lunch. Why they object to feeling heavy, I do not
know. Personally, I enjoy it. I like nothing better than
to sit round after a heavy lunch with half a dozen heavy
friends, smoking heavy cigars. I am well aware that that
is wicked.
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