S. S. Van Dine (1888 – 1939)
American art critic and author.
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“Good God!” he mummered. “I don‘t know what to believe.”
“In that respect,” returned Vance, “you‘re in the same disheartenin‘ predic‘ment as all the philosophers.”
Circumst‘ntial evidence, Markham, is the utt‘rest tommyrot imag‘nable. Its theory is not unlike that of our present-day democracy. The democratic theory is that if you accumulate enough ignorance at the polls, you produce intelligence; and the theory of circumst‘ntial evidence is that if you accumulate a sufficient number of weak links, you produce a strong chain.
As I understand it, your policemen are chosen by their height and weight; they must meet certain requirements as to heft—as thought the only crimes they had to cope with were riots and gang feuds. Bulk—the great American ideal, whether in art, architecture, table d‘hôte meals, or detectives. An entrancin‘ notion.
Anyway, you know full well I never wear boutonnieres. The decoration has fallen into disrepute. The only remaining devotees of the practice are roués and saxophone players.
Only, as long as we‘re going insane we may as well go the whole way. A mere shred of sanity is of no value.
“Do you play chess, by the by?” asked Vance.
“Used to. But no more. A beautiful game, though—if it wasn't for the players.”
Giving full rein to one‘s cynicism as one goes along produces a normal outlet and maintains an emotional equilibrium.
I trust the clergy are not involved in this problem. They‘re notoriously unscientific. One can‘t attack them with mathematics.
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