Frank, interesting criticism of life on the top wave of financial and social success, written in the first person by a man of fifty. A comparison of his own life and family with that of his stenographer, who is both wise and simple, makes him see the opportunities he has missed and leaves him with his wife determined to get out of the "goldfish bowl."
f attention than my mere body. I saw Napoleon's boots and waistcoat the other day in Paris and I felt that he himself must be there in the glass case beside me.
Any one who at Abbotsford has felt of the white beaver hat of Sir Walter Scott knows that he has touched part--and a very considerable part--of Sir Walter. The hat, the boots, the waistcoat are far less ephemeral than the body they protect, and indicate almost as much of the wearer's character as his hands and face. So I am not ashamed of my silk pajamas or of the geranium powder I throw in my bath. They are part of me.
But is this "me" limited to my body and my clothes? I drink a cup of coffee or a cocktail: after they are consumed they are part of me; are they not part of me as I hold the cup or the glass in my hand? Is my coat more characteristic of me than my house--my sleeve-links than my wife or my collie dog? I know a gentlewoman whose sensitive, quivering, aristocratic nature is expressed far more in the Russian wolfhound that shrinks al
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