Serious illness or a major loss of blood from an injury are also causes for loss of deity.

And there has NEVER been any such thing, anywhere, as a genuine, functional guillotine on wheels, particularly one small enough to fit inside someone’s front door.

The Telling of the story of the Rangerphiles must ‘er begin where any telling of a Disney World has its start, that of course being with birth of Lord Disney himself. In the year of Mortal Man that they have numbered Nineteen Hundred and One did Walt make his first appearance upon the Mortal Sphere. For Walt, whom was accounted among the tribes a member of the Clan of Disney, was born in the Windy City, a great metropolis of alabaster and marble.

As an adult, he had a “furious hatred” of potatoes.

Polygrapher Zweig (“twig”), dubbed “Erwerbszweig” (something like “productive branch of the economy”) in catty, envious Vienna: this anxious success and oh-so-modest failure; bestselling and most-translated German-language author before World War Two, and now again book of the week here, rediscovery of the century there, and indulgently reviewed more or less everywhere; this uniquely dreary and clothy sprog of the electric 1880s; this un-Austrian Austrian and un-Jewish Jew (Joseph Roth – who has certainly spoiled me for Zweig – was both, to the max); not a pacifist much less an activist but a passivist; this professional adorer, schmoozer, inheritor and collector, owner of Beethoven’s desk and Goethe’s pen and Leonardo and Mozart manuscripts and busy Balzac proofs and contemporaries out the wazoo, plus 4000 manuscript collection catalogues, who logged his phone calls and logged his letters and logged his books, and, who knows, probably logged his logs; this cosmopolitan loner and blue-riband refugee, so “hysterically discreet” that he got married by proxy; who, in the words of the writer Robert Neumann, “spent his life on the run.”

When the Roman poet Martial attacked some of his contemporaries for their bad breath, it was probably not poetic fantasy.

After Salem spoke, she began squeezing dabs of Plumpy’nut onto plates and passing them around, assuring the partygoers that the brownish goo was surprisingly tasty, with the consistency and sweetness of a cookie filling.

Architect Joseph Paxton said something like, “Hey, let’s build a building made out of glass and iron, but mostly glass.”

As netiquette demanded, she used the “8” character in her emoticons to let other animals know she was actually a mouse.

He shook his head in mock sorrow and lay a gentle, but massive (for a mouse) paw on her head.