Doom. Certain doom—and meanwhile constant surprises.
The basic situation: children fall into the street on the first day of school. Americans go on bombing weddings. Young men decide to do the right thing but don’t get around to it in time.
How many times have I sensibly decided, henceforth I will be sad? Sorrow, I thought, is like a black suit in Japan. You ought to be able to wear it for anything.
Then even doom is a fuzzy blanket is snatched from us. Disaster withheld.
Here comes another fool now, hauling blueberries into intensive care.
Just when everyone is assembled and the widow begins to cry, the guest of honor coughs, sits up in his coffin, and even the Japanese must hurriedly change their ties.
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