"Fogs do not devour
us," they say. "We are the ones who do the devouring. We devour fogs and
people and days." Marvelous buildings.
Overhead the sky floats like a gray and white balloon, as if it were a toy
belonging to the city.
DON QUIXOTE AND HIS LAST WINDMILL
Sherwood Anderson, the writer, and I were eating lunch in the back room of
a saloon. Against the opposite wall sat a red-faced little man with an
elaborate mustache and a bald head and a happy grin. He sat alone at a
tilted round table and played with a plate of soup.
"Say, that old boy over there is trying to wigwag me," said Anderson. "He
keeps winking and making signs. Do you know him?"
I looked and said no. The waiter appeared with a box of cigars.
"Mr. Sklarz presents his compliments," said the waiter, smiling.
"Who's Sklarz?" Anderson asked, helping himself to a cigar. The waiter
indicated the red-faced little man. "Him," he whispered.
We continued our meal. Both of us watched Mr. Sklarz casually. He seemed
to have lost interest in his soup. He sat beaming happily at the walls, a
contagious elation about him. We smiled and nodded our thanks for the
cigars. Whereupon after a short lapse, the waiter appeared again.
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