Aug 192011
 

Before me, a table piled with debts, bills for the child, the wife,–the vet! How much more gracious life would be without these columns adding up defaults and credits, without pen and paper–without numbers! Red ink like a bloodshot eye peers from the dusty pile threatening leins and attachments to my precious property. If loans could be repaid in tears, or the butcher bought off with a diner’s satisfied belch, how paradisiacal our mundane globe would be.

Baudelaire too, unwise in every measure as far as his accounts went, was eternally torn between the pleasureful pressure of a minute’s indulgence and the capacity of his bank account to pony up for the previous night’s ecstasies!  

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