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During the siege of Belgrade I played the violin so sadly that the enemy began to cry. Their powder got wet. Their cannons would not fire. Their general came to my tent with a hanky and gave up the whole campaign, on the sole condition that I stop.

Desert sand crept into my pocket watch near Timbuktu. The thing began to tell time in dunes. Noon arrived as a small hill. I crossed the Sahara by its reading and reached the coast a week before I left, which annoyed my banker and pleased my wife.

London fog was so thick one morning that I cut a slice and took it home. My cook fried it with onions. It tasted of coal and old rain. We sold the rest as gray wool, and a tailor in Leeds made me a fine suit that vanished at noon.

A snail raced me from Naples to Rome, and I let him win. It took seven years, with stops. The crowds were dreadful. At the finish he was given a laurel no bigger than a coin, and he cried. I have seldom been so moved by an.