«Чао-какао» — это выражение, к которому прибегают люди, которым недостаёт воспитания для более вежливой формулировки, например, «Если вам больше ничего не нужно, мне необходимо вас оставить», или «К сожалению, мне придётся просить у вас позволения уйти, если не возражаете», или даже «Извините великодушно, но вы перепутали мой дом с вашим и моё ценное имущество со своим, и я вынужден просить вас вернуть мне упомянутые предметы и, если вас не затруднит, покинуть мой дом, предварительно отвязав меня от стула, так как самостоятельно я этого сделать не могу».

"...Если вы где-то работали, а потом перестали, то вам, конечно, известно, что есть три способа прекратить работу: уволиться по собственному желанию, быть уволенным или уйти по обоюдному согласию сторон. Как вы, не сомневаюсь, прекрасно знаете, по собственному желанию увольняются в том случае, если вы недовольны своим начальником. Если вас уволили, значит, начальник недоволен вами. А если вы ушли по обоюдному согласию сторон, значит, и вы хотели уволиться, и ваш работодатель хотел вас уволить, и вы сбежали из конторы, с завода или из монастыря прежде, чем было решено, кто сделает первый ход. Так или иначе, как бы вы ни прекратили работу, всегда неприятно случайно наткнуться на бывшего начальника, поскольку обоим это напоминает о том унылом времени, которое вы проработали вместе..."

The burning of a book is a sad, sad sight, for even though a book is nothing but ink and paper, it feels as if the ideas contained in the book are disappearing as the pages turn to ashes and the cover and binding-which is the term for the stitching and glue that holds the pages together-blacken and curl as the flames do their wicked work. When someone is burning a book, they are showing utter contempt for all of the thinking that produced its ideas, all of the labor that went into its words and sentences, and all of the trouble that befell the author, from the swarm of termites that tried to destroy his notes, to the large boulder that someone rolled onto the illustrator as he sat by the edge of the pond waiting for the delivery of the manuscript.

There are some who say that you should forgive everyone, even the people who have disappointed you immeasurably. There are others who say you should not forgive anyone, and should stomp off in a huff no matter how many times they apologize. Of these two philosophies, the second one is of course much more fun, but it can also grow exhausting to stomp off in a huff every time someone has disappointed you, as everyone disappoints everyone eventually, and one can't stomp off in a huff every minute of the day.

Dewey was wrong when he said that being noble enough is all we can ask for in this world, because we can ask for much more than that. We can ask for a second helping of pound cake, even though someone has made it quite clear that we will not get any. We can ask for a new watercolor set, even though it will be pointed out that we never used the old one, and that all of the paints dried into a crumbly mess. We can ask for Japanese fighting fish, to keep us company in our bedroom, and we can ask for a special camera that will allow us to take photographs even in the dark, for obvious reasons, and we can ask for an extra sugar cube in our coffees in the morning and an extra pillow in our beds at night. We can ask for justice, and we can ask for a handkerchief, and we can ask for cupcakes, and we can ask for all the soldiers in the world to lay down their weapons and join us in a rousing chorus of "Cry Me a River," if that happens to be our favorite song. But we can also ask for something we are much more likely to get, and that is to find a person or two, somewhere in our travels, who will tell us that we are noble enough, whether it is true or not. We can ask for someone who will say, "You are noble enough," and remind us of our good qualities when we have forgotten them, or cast them into doubt.

One of the advantages of being taciturn is that it is rare for your words to get you into trouble. A taciturn writer, for instance, might produce only one short poem every ten years, which is unlikely to annoy anyone, whereas someone who writes twelve or thirteen books in a relatively short time is likely to find themselves hiding under the coffee table of a notorious villain, holding his breath, hoping nobody at the cocktail party will notice the trembling backgammon set, and wondering, as the inkstain spreads across the carpeting, if certain literary exercises have been entirely worthwhile.

"Off with you" is a phrase used by people who lack the courtesy to say something more polite, such as "If there's nothing else you require, I must be going," or "I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to ask you to leave, please," or even "Excuse me, but I believe you have mistaken my home for your own, and my valuable belongings for yours, and I must ask you to return the items in question to me, and leave my home, after untying me from this chair, as I am unable to do it myself, if it's not too much trouble."