Today's Stichomancy for Bill O'Reilly

Asked me in demotic French To luncheon at the Cannon Street Hotel Followed by a weekend at the Metropole.

At the violet hour, when the eyes and back Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits Like a taxi throbbing waiting, I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives, Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see

At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives 220 Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea, The typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lights

The Waste Land

Casts such a heat, yea such a scorching heat, And spoileth Flora of her checquered grass; I'll overrun the mountain Caucasus, Where fell Chimaera in her triple shape Rolleth hot flames from out her monstrous paunch, Searing the beasts with issue of her gorge; I'll pass the frozen Zone where icy flakes, Stopping the passage of the fleeting ships, Do lie like mountains in the congealed sea: Where if I find that hateful house of hers, I'll pull the pickle wheel from out her hands,

of Henry IV., if chance had not thrown an unexpected assistance in his way. An old man mounted the spiral stairway. The oddity of his dress, the magnificence of his lace ruffles, the solid assurance of his deliberate step, led the youth to assume that this remarkable personage must be the patron, or at least the intimate friend, of the painter. He drew back into a corner of the landing and made room for the new-comer; looking at him attentively and hoping to find either the frank good-nature of the artistic temperament, or the serviceable disposition of those who promote the arts. But on the contrary he fancied he saw something diabolical in the expression of the old man's face,--something, I know not what, which has the quality of alluring

"I expected you to say all this, wife," said Cesar Birotteau. "I am not quite such a fool (though you think me a great fool, you do) as not to have thought of all that. Now, listen to me. Alexandre Crottat will fit us like a glove for a son-in-law, and he will succeed Roguin; but do you suppose he will be satisfied with a hundred thousand francs /dot/?--supposing that we gave our whole property outside of the business to establish our daughter, and I am willing; I would gladly live on dry bread the rest of my days to see her happy as a queen, the wife of a notary of Paris, as you say. Well, then, a hundred thousand francs, or even eight thousand francs a year, is nothing at all towards buying Roguin's practice. Little Xandrot, as we call him,

Rise and Fall of Cesar Birotteau