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Anchors never held my ship in a blow, so one night I dropped my wife's cousin over the side. He was a heavy man with firm opinions. The vessel stopped dead. He sat on the sea floor until dawn, and he complained of the damp for the rest of his days.

Trumpets are dangerous in the wrong lungs, and mine are the wrong lungs. I blew a single note near Jericho, just for fun. Some old stones shifted. A goat fell over. A man in Damascus dropped his lunch. I put the horn away and have since kept it under lock.

Dreams are expensive in my family. I dreamed of a gold coach one night in Tallinn, and there it stood the next day in the yard. The coachman was real, and so was his bill. Since that time I have dreamed only of small, cheap things, like buttons and thimbles.

Holes in Swiss cheese are my doing. Long ago, each wheel came solid as a brick. I took my musket to a dairy in Bern and fired at them for sport. The farmer wept, until the buyers came. They paid double for the holes, and I have billed the canton ever since.

His Majesty the Sultan bet me his beard that no man could count the sand in his garden. I.