My Four Weeks in France quotes

Wednesday, July 18. A Lake Michigan Port.

I kept an appointment today with a gentleman from Somewhere in Connecticut.

“How,” said he, “would you like to go to France?”

Today I took the matter up with the War Department, through Mr. Creel.

“Mr. Creel,” I said, “can I go on a troopship?”

There was no trouble about it.

“Mr. Creel,” I said, “can I go on a troopship?”

There was no trouble about it.

Wednesday, August 1. An Atlantic Port.

“Are we convoyed through the danger zone?” I inquired.

“We don’t guarantee it,” said he. “There has never been an accident on this line,” he added.

“What I was thinking about,” said I, “wouldn’t be classed as an accident.” Further questioning developed the comforting fact that the ship I am taking has never been sunk.

We left port at ten last night, a mere three and a half days behind schedule.

The ship and I should be very congenial, as we are about the same age.

My roommates are a young man from Harvard and a young man from Yale, but so far I have managed to keep the conversation neutral.

… will be definitively known wether the two sox teams are to fight it out in a nip and tuk finish or wether the Chicago sox will have a comfortable margen to insure a world series betwean the two largest American citys Chicago and New York.

The French news deals exclusively with the developments in the world series Over There, which is, perhaps, almost as important.

A new acquaintance made today was that of the Gentleman from Louisiana. He introduced himself to scold me and another guy for not taking sufficient exercise. We told him we found little pleasure in promenading the deck.

The Gentleman from Louisiana yielded to his younger and stronger countryman. Someone had spoken of the lack of convoy. “Don’t you think we haven’t a convoy,” the kid remarked.

I scanned the sea in all directions and saw nothing but the dark waters.

“Where is it?” I inquired.

“Well, there are no trains. How will you go there?”

“I’ll try to get a taxi,” I said.

“Are you going from here to Paris?”

“Sit down,” said he, “and wait a minute.”

He was out of the room five years.

“If he ever does come back,” I thought, “it will be in the company of five or six large gendarmes.”

We also observed the inmates of passing taxis. No matter how wide the back seat, the lady occupant invariably sat on her escort’s lap.

A five-passenger car in America is a ten-passenger car in Paris, provided the chauffeur has a girl of his own.

When the American officer was tired of buying, I left him and sought out the Chicago Tribune office, conveniently located above Maxim’s. The editor was there, but he was also broke, so I went back to the Ritz and got ready for bed.

A pedestrian run over and killed is liable to imprisonment. The driver is not only innocent, but free to hurl as many French curses as he likes at his victims. If the pedestrian is not killed, he must explain why not to the judge.

It is not only permissible but compulsory to speak to any girl who speaks to you, and a girl who won’t speak to you should be reported to the police.

No watch or clock is wrong. Whatever time you have is right and you may act accordingly.

It is not only permissible but compulsory to speak to any girl who speaks to you, and a girl who won’t speak to you should be reported to the police.

No watch or clock is wrong. Whatever time you have is right and you may act accordingly.

Matches never ignite. A smoker must purchase a cigar or cigarette lighter and keep it filled with essence, the française term for gas. Sometimes the lighters work.

No watch or clock is wrong. Whatever time you have is right and you may act accordingly.

Matches never ignite.

A smoker must purchase a cigar or cigarette lighter and keep it filled with essence, the française term for gas. Sometimes the lighters work.

American cigarettes are not procurable. Bum ones may be bought at any tabac store or café for only five times what they are worth.

Water must never be used as a thirst quencher, and seldom for any other purpose. It’s worse than bourgeois; it’s unheard-of.

The lack of water, hot or cold, drove me to a barber shop this morning. The barber first made me put on a shroud, and I was afraid he was either going to cut me to pieces or talk me to death.

On occasions when you are run into and knocked down a gendarme appears on the scene with pencil and notebook. He takes the name and address of the driver and escorts you to jail.

If you die there, the driver is sent a medal for marksmanship.

Taxi fares are cheaper, probably, than anywhere else in the world. They amount to practically nothing if you have an accident—that is, a trip without a collision with something or somebody.

The boy, after a hearty bawling out by the driver and two gendarmes, was carted to a police station. They’ll hardly keep him in jail, though. Matteawan is the proper place for a boy who attempts bicycling on the streets of Paris.

One of several differences between an American and a Frenchman is that an American tries to understand a Frenchman’s English and a Frenchman tries not to understand an American’s French.

Today I wanted to go from somewhere to the Hotel Continental.

And the patrol took him for a boche and gave chase. Fortunately for himself, he glimpsed his pursuers in time and turned on the required signal.

Today there has been a big demand for first-floor rooms.

An American major—it is interdict by the censor to mention the names of any officers save General Sibert and General Pershing—asked a friend in London to buy him an automobile and ship it here for his use.

Tuesday, August 28. Somewhere in France.

“Early” proved to be half past ten yesterday morning.

Joe drove us to the city limits, and there we had to pause. According to this year’s rules, ye automobilist pauses at the limits, has his gasoline measured, and then goes on.

It’s on one now, Paris bound, that I’m writing. There is nothing to do but write, for Howard is getting the sleep he missed last night and Joe is too angry to talk. He has spoken one sentence since we got up this morning.

“This is a queer war,” he said.

As exclusively predicted by everybody, it was pouring when we arose this morning, but rain doesn’t keep you indoors in France.

If it did, you would live indoors.

We splashed the thirty miles to the other end of the camp and inflicted ourselves on a major of marines. He seemed deliberately unfriendly at first, but it was only his manner.

“I’m sorry,” said the major, “but the arrangement has been made for only three.”

I choked back tears of disappointment.

The major has wished on me for tomorrow a trip through the reconquered territory. My companions are to be the captain with the monocle, the Harvard professor, the philanthropist, and the philanthropist’s secretary. We are to start off at eight o’clock.

The American captain departed after tea, and the major and I sat and bored each other till the Harvard professor and his illustrious companions returned. They told me I missed a very interesting trip.

That’s the kind of trip one usually misses.

At dinner we resumed our enlightening discussion of Chinese, but it was interrupted when the major was called to the telephone. The message was from the captain who was supposed to meet Mr. Gibbons and Mr.

Me because I was the only one in the second machine who wore a British officer’s cap. I returned about three salutes, blushing painfully, and then threw my cap on the floor of the car and rode exposed.

Saluting is a wear and tear on the right arm, and being saluted makes you feel slackerish and camouflagy, when you don’t deserve it.

We attained the foot of the observation hill round noon, left our machines, and ate our picnic lunch, consisting of one kind of sandwiches and three kinds of wine. Then we accomplished the long climb, stopping halfway up to don helmets and masks.

“Did you tip them?” asked Mr. Gibbons.

“I’ll bet I know,” said Mr. Gibbons. “You probably packed your own suitcase.”

“Is that as far away as it sounds?”

“Monsieur can go there and be back in une heure.”

Monsieur crawled wearily into a taxi and started for Honolulu. The military passes did prove suffisant, and there was no trouble getting a fifty-gallon book at two francs per gal.

I could have spent an entire week replying to that, but even minutes were precious.

“Because it’s where I live,” proved satisfactory.

He apologized again for having to propound the queries, which shows he must be new on the job. The rest of them don’t care whether you like it or not.

Customs examination in this case is a pure waste of time. The gentleman only wants to know whether you are trying to smuggle any gold money out of France.

I’d like to see the departing guest who has any kind of money left to smuggle.

The Authorities du Exit are seven in number. They sit round a table, and you pass from one to the other until something has been done to you by each.

“I’ll pass you,” he said, “but if you come back to France again, you can’t leave.”

He and I should both worry.

But it does seem pathetic that the written and stamped approval, in all colors of the rainbow, of the Paris chief of police, the American consul, the British Military Control, the British consul, the French consul in New York, and nearly everybody else in the …

“In an automobile.”

“I was being the guest of your army.”

A great light dawned upon them.

No, nor a British trench either. I said as much right out loud, and I’m afraid I’ve spoiled his trip.

But honest, Doc, somebody was kidding you or else your last name is Cook.

Thursday, September 27. At Sea.