Your hair may be brushed, but your mind's untidy. You've had about seven hours of sleep since Friday. No wonder you feel that lost sensation. You're sunk from a riot of relaxation.
How pleasant is Saturday night when I've tried all the week to be good, and not spoke a word that was bad, and obliged everyone that I could.
One non-revolutionary weekend is infinitely more bloody than a month of permanent revolution.
The rhythm of the weekend, with its birth, its planned gaieties, and its announced end, followed the rhythm of life and was a substitute for it.