When I hear talk nowadays about the dues of the common people, my
propensity to laugh is so great that I am apprehensive that my end may
be like that of the Greek philosopher in Diogenes Laertius, who died of
laughter because he saw an ass eating figs.
THE VEXATIONS OF A SMALL TRADESMAN
The trials and tribulations of the literary life, its feuds and its
backbitings are a common topic of conversation. However, I have never
experienced anything of the kind in literature. The trouble with
literature is that there is very little money in it, which renders the
writer's existence both mean and precarious.
Nothing compares for vexation with the life of the petty tradesman,
especially when that tradesman is a baker. Upon occasion, I have
repeated to my friends the series of outrages to which we were obliged
to submit, in particular at the hands of the municipal authorities.
Sometimes it was through malice, but more often through sheer insentient
imbecility.
When my brother and I moved to the new site, we drew up a plan and
submitted it to the _Ayuntamiento_, or City Government. A clerk
discovered that no provision had been made for a stall for a mule to run
the kneading machine, and so rejected it. When we learned that our
application had not been granted, we inquired the reason and explained
to the clerk that no provision had been made for the mule because we had
no mule, as our kneading machine was operated by an electric motor.
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