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252 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1927

Rabelais: And this Patriotism?
Voltaire: Cher ami, you know bird-breeders set mechanical devices to whistle the tunes they wish their birds to sing in their cages.
Rabelais: Deceiving them with notes of liberty. Unhappy little victims. Ignorant of the skies.
Voltaire: Voilá That is patriotism. The tunes of the masters, taught to birds in their cages.
Ingersoll:A clash with the soldiers in Mexico; a clash with the marines in Nicaragua--war--and all for oil--for concessionaires, for “investors.” Nervous Nellie [the Secretary of State] is only their valet and Congress helpless--except officially to declare war after a lame duck has made it.
God: I am listening. I am watching. I will see the end. It does occur to me in my infinite wisdom that if your common people were not common fools they would say, “Let those who go into foreign countries with their money take the risk of their investments or keep out. We refuse to die for anybody’s money.” What were you about to say, Abraham?
Lincoln: My country is sowing to the wind and will reap the whirlwind. Hate, hate for the Americans throughout all Latin countries...
Mark Twain: Rabelais, you were fortunate to have lived before the putrid days of puritanism. Today your book would be prohibited by the censor.
Voltaire: Loathsome word.
Rabelais: What is the matter with my book?
Carrie Nation: It is obscene.
Rabelais: Skip it.
Carrie Nation: I will not.
Voltaire: Of course not.
Carrie Nation: It will corrupt the young.
Rabelais: Not unless they read it.
Carrie Nation: But they will read it.
...
Rabelais: The more you prohibit, the more curious they will be. To prohibit is to arouse thirst. My book has been on eery bookstall for three hundred years and has never corrupted anybody. If they like it, they are already corrupted. ...
Margaret Fuller. Much is not of our day and I skipped what offended me. I never felt that because strawberries grow out of manure I must eat the manure also.
Rabelais: Ha! That is the very pulp of the melon. Some like garlic. Some do not. Yet our great good friend reposing there made the strawberries and the garlic. Behold! He has spread for us a most sumptuous and abundant feast on a royal table. There is a place for everyone, viands for every taste. At this end are the most excellent great roasts of fat beef; haunches and saddles of mutton; ducklings, fattened on milk curds, with the little new peas--beads of emeral and jade; hams of the brave, curve-tusked wild boar; and crispy crackling, juicy roast suckling pig with apple of Normandy. Hélas! Excuse me. I am overcome with memories...[as a soul, Rabelais can no longer eat, a never-ceasing cause of pain for him]