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GARRULITY is the pouring forth
of many words without any forethought. The garrulous man will sit down
beside you though he never saw you in his life before, and laud his wife
up to the skies. Then he will tell you the dream he had last night, or
describe all he had for dinner, every item of it. Then warming to his
task he remarks to you how inferior we men of to-day are to the ancients,
how cheap wheat is in the market, how many foreigners are in town. He
informs you that after the festival of Dionysos in February the sea will
be safe for sailing, that if Heaven would send more rain the crops would
come on better, that he is going to farm his land next year, and how difficult
life is, and did you hear what a tremendous torch Damippos had set up
at the mysteries.1 He wonders how many columns
the Odeion has. He confides to you he was unwell yesterday. He asks what
day it is, and informs you that the mysteries will be celebrated in September,
the Apaturia in October, and the country festival of Dionysos in December.
If you stand this sort of thing for a moment he goes on forever. Unless
you want a fever, shake off men like him and get rid of them. It is a
hard thing to endure men who cannot see the difference between work and
leisure.
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