My dear, I remember men who Byronized themselves to death. I have seen much; I have seen men who, for example, took a fancy to peasants, and ended with drinking vodka in peasant dramshops. There is no measure with us, and there cannot[…]
Tell the schlepper to take it up to your hotel room.
Cesar Delmarre baked ten ovenfuls a day, maintaining an athletic cadence, but kept a surprisingly small stock, because he had nowhere to put it, his landlady refusing to rent him a room on the second floor next to where she slept for fear that his activities would disturb her peace.
“[…] I leaned back and stretched in sexual thrill, opening my belly to heaven, the basement room’s lightbulbed ceiling.[…]” he wrote in his journal.
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