Diary of a Drug Fiend

The Gatto Fritto 12I _ We said nothing to each other about this. It was, ‘in fact, deeper and darker than could be conveyed by articulate speech. Man differs from the lower animals indeed, first of all, in this matter of language. The use of language compels one to measure one’s thoughts. That is why the great philosophers and mystics, who are dealing with ideas that cannot be expressed in such terms, are constantly compelled to use negative adjectives, or to rebuke the mind by formulating their thoughts in a series of contradictory statements. That is the explanation of the Athanasian Creed. Its clauses puzzle the plain man. | , One must oneself be divine to comprehend divinity. The converse proposition is equally true. The passions of the pit find outlet only in bestial noises. The automobile stopped at the end of the dirty little street where the Fauno Ebbrio lurks. The motorman pointed to the zig-zag streak of light that issued from it, and cast a sinister gleam on the opposite wall. A bold, black-haired, short-skirted girl with a gaudy shawl and huge gold ear-rings was standing in the door. What with the long journey and the drugs and other things, we were a little drunk—just enough to realise that it was part of our policy to pretend to be a little more drunk than we were. We let our heads roll from side to side as we staggered to the door. We sat down at a little table and called for drink. They served us one of those foul Italian imitations of liqueurs that taste like hair-wash. But instead of nauseating us, it exalted us; we enjoyed it as part of the game. Dressed as low-class Neapolitans, we threw ourselves heartily into the part. We threw the fiery filth down our throats as if it had been Courvoisier ’65. The drink took effect on us with surprising alacrity. It seemed to let loose those swarming caravans of driver ants that eat their way