Encyclopaedia of Useless Knowledge. I wonder if the author of the
popular novel has ever tried working with a wet towel round his or
her head: I have. It is difficult enough to move a yard, balancing
a dry towel. A heathen Turk may have it in his blood to do so: the
ordinary Christian has not got the trick of it. To carry about a wet
towel twisted round one's head needs a trained acrobat. Every few
minutes the wretched thing works loose. In darkness and in misery,
you struggle to get your head out of a clammy towel that clings to
you almost with passion. Brain power is wasted in inventing names
for that towel--names expressive of your feelings with regard to it.
Further time is taken up before the glass, fixing the thing afresh.

You return to your books in the wrong temper, the water trickles down
your nose, runs in rivulets down your back. Until you have finally
flung the towel out of the window and rubbed yourself dry, work is
impossible. The strong tea always gave me indigestion, and made me
sleepy. Until I had got over the effects of the tea, attempts at
study were useless.

[Because he's so damned clever.]

But the thing that still irritates me most against the hero of the
popular novel is the ease with which he learns a modern foreign
language. Were he a German waiter, a Swiss barber, or a Polish
photographer, I would not envy him; these people do not have to learn
a language. My idea is that they boil down a dictionary, and take
two table-spoonsful each night before going to bed. By the time the
bottle is finished they have the language well into their system.
But he is not. He is just an ordinary Anglo-Saxon, and I don't
believe in him. I walk about for years with dictionaries in my