1927

I fell in with a gentleman on the Pullman smoker today (Pullman smokers are perfect institutes for plumbing the depths and shallows of the American mind) who had made a killing on the stock exchange. His luck appeared like success from his perspective, and he was full of the confidence with which success endows mortals. He spoke oracularly on any and all subjects. He knew why the farmers were not making any money and why the Europeans were not as prosperous as we. Isn’t it strange how gambler’s luck gives men the assurance of wisdom for which philosophers search in vain? I pity this man’s wife. But she probably regards a new fur coat as adequate compensation for the task of appearing convinced by his obiter dicta.