I don’t like the dolorous mask my friend Klingelhöfer wears when he says, “I always said no good would come of it, and no good did come of it.” His fieiwillige Feuerwehr ebullience is suddenly gone, and now he emerges from the wings, like a one-man troupe playing Molière, in judicious melancholy. I want to say to him, “You Schweinehund, what you said, and you said it to yourself, was that no good would come of it if it lost. And it did lose. If it had won, you’d be drinking blood with the rest of them.” But what’s the use?
