Ezio Pinza had a great voice, but was not a very good singer; Maria Callas was a great singer whose voice was undependable. We must evacuate our bowels every day. If this cannot be done in the natural way, then an enema can be used in the evenings before bedtime. Marian Anderson had the greatest voice there ever was — there will never be one like hers again. Ringstrom, the Swede in Seattle, a fellow sign painter, ignored his constipation for so long that he became hopelessly impacted. He finally burst and died shortly thereafter, of blood poisoning. Cousin Sophie, that inconsiderate egotist who changed her name from Sarah — it wasn’ good enough for her — will never be anything but a parasitic spendthrift. She was spoiled by her father and her adulteress mother, who would occasionally date her daughter’s boyfriends. All fried foods, no matter the manner fried, are bad. Hot dogs are pure poison. Only ping-pong among all sports is worthwhile, provided you play it very well. Mr. Pifko, a plain man, but with foresight, who was already a millionaire in the forties, said that he’d spend a thousand dollars in a moment on anything really useful, but would not part with a dime for what was unnecessary. It’s better to arrive on time than to be late; it’s even better to arrive a few minutes early, just to be sure. Jascha Heifetz was the greatest violinist who ever lived. The same for Gregor Piatigorsky on the cello. Driving at night can be dangerous because it is dark; the headlights could fail or fall off in the middle of nowhere. There’s no point in learning a musical instrument unless, at an early age, you display clear promise of being destined for the world’s great concert halls. After dinner it is better to push yourself away from the table while you’re still a little hungry. Aunt Fanya (“Fannie”) in Seattle was an ignorant woman, and vain — she wore a flowery hat even when hanging out the wash to dry in the rear yard — while Uncle Joseph was simple, gentle, and pious. Aunt Fannie said she heard, coming from his room on the night he died, the faint singing of angels. Maniacs at night sometimes crouch just beyond the dark edges of woods along dirt roads dimly lit, waiting to pounce on children, even those gripping the hands of their fathers.