From the auction

A pewter lidded container with a recumbent fawn knob, marked "Denmark" and unhelpfully accompanied by an indistinguishable maker's insignia.

My hangover Agatha

Funerals Are Fatal.
A half-batty elderly sister attending her brother's funeral, blurts out "Well, it WAS murder wasn't it?" and is subsequently chopped to bits with a hatchet. Her companion is poisoned by a slice of mailed wedding cake- part of which she leaves under her pillow so as to dream of her own wedding. Mustachioed nuns are thrown in as a red herring, and Victorian wax flowers under a bell jar become significant to Poirot. The means and the murderer become glaringly obvious from the wedding cake on, although the motive would be, let's say, unlikely to inspire hatchet murder in many; that motive being to take the money from selling the victim's Vermeer (over which the murderer had painted a seaside scene) and open a tea shoppe.
Of course Aggie sets herself a brilliant problem to solve- what if a murder is not a murder but an opportunity to distract from a planned crime? (Not that the sister hatcheted herself to death.)

Nice cover, though.

The Day of the Locust

Reading Nathaniel West's final novel in a wonderfully lurid pulp edition.(bottom pic) A pocket edition as dry as a pressed flower. It closes like an over-used wallet because its spine has been broken. The two halves of pages are nearly bifurcated at the place where Homer Simpson takes pity on Miss Martin, the lush. Everything after Miss Martin would drift and flitter out one page after the other but for the six tough strings of dried glue that hold it intact. They stretch like spit between lips and are amber, crusted with bits of brown paper- like broken, translucent bug parts.

I have also included the Penguin edition which has the most fitting cover art.

From the bk.:
It was a picture of Faye Greener, a still from a two-reel farce in which she worked as an extra. She had given him the photograph willingly enough, had even autographed it in a large wild hand, "Affectionately yours, Faye Greener". Faye played one of the dancing girls. She had only one line to speak, "Oh, Mr. Smith" and spoke it badly.

Finally

I had long avoided reading To Kill a Mockingbird, which is a difficult feat. At the time, the prevalent edition was this one with a bird being annoyed by poky color triangles. I suppose I thought the book was about murderous Graphic Designers. As a child, I couldn't even look at the cover without it upsetting me. I also shunned it because my sister (possibly kindly) warned me if a dog died in anything, a movie, a book or a television show and one, named Tim Johnson, does indeed die- so I deliberately never watched the Gregory Peck film, and may eventually have confused it with Member of the Wedding.
Of course, I loved the novel.

From the bk.....
Maycomb was an old town, but it was a tired old town when I first knew it. In rainy weather the streets turned to red slop; grass grew on sidewalks, the courthouse sagged in the square. Somehow, it was hotter then: a black dog suffered on a summer's day; bony mules hitched to Hoover carts flicked flies in the sweltering shade of the live oaks on the square. Men's stiff collars wilted by nine in the morning. Ladies bathed before noon, after their three-o'clock naps, and by nightfall were like soft teacakes with frostings of sweat and sweet talcum.

Revisiting Muriel Spark

Daylight was appearing over London, the great city of bachelors. Half-pint bottles of milk began to be stood at the doorsteps of houses containing single apartments from Hampstead Heath to Greenwich Park, from Wanstead Flats to Putney Heath; but especially in Hampstead, especially in Kensington.
In Queens Gate, Kensington, in Harrington Road, The Boltons.... Chelsea and its backwaters, the bachelors stirred between their sheets, reached for their wound watches, and with waking intelligences noted the time; then remembering it was Saturday morning turned over on their pillows. But soon because it was Saturday, most would be out on the streets shopping for their bacon and eggs.... would set out early, before a quarter past ten, in order to avoid being jostled by the women, the legitimate shoppers.

and

It is all demonology and to do with creatures of the air, and there are others besides ourselves, he thought who lie in their beds like happy countries that have no history. Others ferment in prison; some rot, maimed; some lean over the banisters of presbyteries to see if anyone is going to answer the telephone.

From "Hawkins of the Paris Herald"

Sarah Bernhardt, 1879: "It's curious how many idle stories there are about me. My favorite dishes are supposed to be burnt cats, lizards' tails and peacock brains sauteed in monkey butter, whatever that is..."

I saw La Goulue sometime after her retirement from the Moulin Rouge. True to her soubriquet, meaning the glutton, she had ruined her dancing career by overeating, and my glimpse of her was as a lion tamer in a street fair. She later became a wrestler and just before she died in 1921 she could be seen selling oranges outside the Moulin rouge.

"In the early years of the century, the Folies Bergere competed with the Moulin Rouge by producing revues that featured English dancehall girls, because French girls are incapable of learning the precisions required in a chorus line.

Ladies of pleasure had been known under the Second Empire a les biches and les soupeuses. A biche was a small deer. A soupeuse was a beauty of limited virtue available for supper. By the turn of the century, the appellations had gone out of fashion in favor of the simpler 'demimondaine'.

Worst wedding toast ever

John Donne in 1627, from the NYRB:

Where be all the splinters of that Bone,
which a shot hath shivered and scattered in the Ayre ?
Where be all the Atoms of that flesh, which a Corrasive hath eat away,
or a Consumption hath breath'd,and exhal'd away from our arms, and other Limbs ?
In what wrinkle, in what furrow, in what bowel of the earth,
ly all the graines of the ashes of a body burnta thousand years since ?
 In what corner, in what ventricle of the sea, lies all the jelly of a Body drowned
in the generall flood ? What coherence, what sympathy, what dependence
maintaines any relation, any correspondence, between that arm that was lost in Europe,
and that legge that was lost in Afrique or Asia, scores of yeers between ?
One humour of our dead body produces worms,
and those worms suck and exhaust all other humour, and then all dies, and all dries,
 and molders into dust, and that dust is blowen into the River, &
that puddled water tumbled into the sea, and that ebs and flows in infinite revolutions,
and still, still God knows in what Cabinet every seed-Pearle lies,
in what part of the world every graine of every mans dust lies.

MURTHER somewhat foul

After a marvelous July 4th with work folk, I spent the afternoon with Agatha. "Murder at Hazelmoor" opened, as always, with a terrific premise. An evening party where the hostesses, suggesting diversions, agree to some table turning. The lights are dimmed and the table raps out, letter by letter, that Captain Trevelyan has just been murdered at the Hazelmoor cottage he was renting. His good friend Burnaby sets off in a snowstorm to investigate. Trevelyan is indeed dead- coshed with a sand-filled sock laid against under door draughts. Since the time of death coincides with the spirit occurance, it is obvious that one of the guests must be the murderer, and as only 4 characters are sketched out in the length of the story, it is of course the one most present in that narrative.

Acquisitions

The 3 latest art purchases at auction- unsigned or illegibly signed. "Landscape" pencil signed " N. Mayer", dated '51. Mid to early 20th century- the two lithographs were from the estate of artist Eugene Pizzuto- in a sheaf of art from many different artists. The bridge is a greater mystery- the artist seems to have also created the frame- there is a two letter monogram in the lower left corner, possibly "K.T.".

Agatha

Left: The face of my hangovers.





When, on the morning following a night out I have no desire to move, I'll reread an Agatha Christie cover to cover until the throbbing ceases. After "The Clocks", I read "Mrs. McGinty's Dead" in which an elderly charwoman was murdered by one of any of her five clients as she had discovered that one of them was related to one of four murderesses featured in a newspaper article. The solution, not very thrillingly, had to do with the fact that "Evelyn CAN also be a MAN'S name!"
Next it was "Ordeal by Innocence" in which a woman is murdered by one of any of 4 adopted children, her husband, secretary or housekeeper. The motive was rather implausible.... (housekeeper infatuated with son, hiding theft of slain mother's money). The reaction of the son when convicted of the murder committed by the housekeeper was inexplicable.
I enjoy having all the Christie paperbacks around to remind me of my days spent in paperback swap shops like The Book Rack, situated next to the waterfall in the University Village shopping center, but I never need read them again, so they are being purged, along with Solzhenitsyn's Cancer Ward, Virginia Kelly (Clinton)'s Autobiography and some Brigid Brophy.

Oh, T.H.R-G!

From Robsjohn-Gibbings' petulant screed against the antique, "Goodbye, Mr. Chippendale":
"Those were the days, so help me, when it was the height of something to sit on a cassapanca upon a tiled floor amid frescoed walls and coffered ceiling- an interior of incredible gloom..."
(A cassapanca is a sort of Italiany hope chest, to which arms and a back could be added).

and on "French Gothic"

This confusion of the ecclesiastical and the secular, the result of too many visits to European churches and cathedrals by the American laity, struck few if any as incongruous. It seemed natural to hang your pants over a prie-dieu, keep the telephone book on a lectern, the cigars in a gutted hymnal, drape the walls with chasubles, put a chalice on the piano, and stand dolorous carved saints in the odd corners.

Somerset Maughham, Agatha Christie, Chanel, William James

The order of completion of the last four books I have read.
This was my second reading of "Cakes and Ale", and I enjoyed it even more than I had previously. It is the only Maugham I've ever attempted (other than a reluctant plunge into "Of Human Bondage"- a novel that should be quietly slid behind file cabinets and into elevator shafts while no one's looking)
I followed this up with Agatha Christie's "The Clocks", which had the irresistible murder of an unknown man who was to be found by a temp hire arriving at the house of an elderly blind woman whose home has been filled with clocks she does not own, all set to the same wrong time.
It became glaringly obvious that these were all red herrings and the murderer was fairly apparent. The motive was unsportingly peripheral to the story, and the eventual identity of the victim was never really a point of interest. It almost seemed an academic problem Agatha was solving, the premise made from words thrown improv style at her. Even if the victim is unsympathetic his death should inspire some sort of empathy in the reader. He was as inert as the clocks. Absurdly, after the murder was solved the blind woman turned out to be some sort of spy which in no way had anything to do with the victim.
Less skillfully, Edmonde Roux's prickly, defensive bio of Chanel largely consisted of extraordinary suppositions, diaphonous sources and a sense that Roux had no interest at all in fashion. So many sentences ended half-way through or trailed clauses into vaporous nothingness that the narrative shuddered to a stop. Additionally its poor translation into stilted English gave one the sensation of falling down a staircase.

From "William James in the Maelstrom of American Modernism"

a race of dogs bred for generations, say in the Vatican, with
characters of visual shape, sculptured in marble, presented to their eyes, in every variety
of form and combination, ought to discriminate before long the finest shades of these
peculiar characters. In a word, they ought to become, if time were given, accomplished
connoisseurs of sculpture.
What this leaves out, of course, is the factor of active interest. The mind must have some interest in a given subject before it even begins to register impressions, let aone form opinions. "My experience is what I agree to attend to" is how James puts it. What the dogs will attend to in the scculpture gallery is "Who peed on this pedestal?"

Conrad

"Mr. Arnold Bennett recently protested against those people who, when Conrad is mentioned, exclaim "Ah, Conrad!" as if that were a different thing altogether, as if you were now talking about something that mattered. It is a form of exclusiveness that is very irritating no doubt, especially if you happen to be a novelist yourself."

_Virginia Woolf, Collected Essays

Hugh Trevor-Roper on Scotland

I suppose that the great crisis caused by the Rape of the Stone has been reported even in Italy. The upper classes (feel) if such things are to be allowed, where will they stop? Are not the halls and castles of the Scots aristocracy stuffed with relics and objets d'art dubiously conveyed thither from distant origins far more recently than the 13th century? If everyone is going to claim his own, there will be scenes like the competition for disputed limbs and organs in the great day of the Resurrection of the Flesh.

Jacobean furniture

From the book "The Practical Book Of Period Furniture", by Harold Donaldson Eberlein And Abbot McClure: For those whose needs embrace Jacobean furniture the authors have endeavoured to offset all difficulties and make its study as easy as possible by treating it in the most practical and systematic manner. They would also cheer the reader by assuring him that the subsequent periods are much simpler and less varied in their characteristics.

Before treating of Jacobean furniture itself it is necessary to say a few words regarding the terms used,when we speak of the Jacobean or Stuart period, with reference to furniture, we ordinarily include everything between 1603, when James I ascended the throne of England, and 1688, when the second James fled before the victorious approach of William of Orange.

The contour and style of the furniture of the Jacobean period, as of every other period for that matter, more or less faithfully reflected the social, intellectual and religious temperament and manners of the times. The furniture was stout and staunch, even to clumsiness and severe in form and line even though bedizened with a superfluity of ornament. It matched the coarse manners, abrupt morals, and vigorous theology of the day with all their grotesquerie, terrible earnestness and redundancy of polemics, brimstone anathema and persecution. Contour and style were both thoroughly in accord with the genius of the people.

The Paris Universal Expo of 1867

From "The Judgment of Paris"
Among the new inventions were: a typewriter, a phonograph, a tire made from rubber, a refined hydrocarbon oil called petroleum, and aluminum. There was also dynamite and a new invention from America, the rocking chair. Displayed as well was a brass horn called the saxophone, invented by the Imperial Instrument maker, Adolphe Sax.

From Louis Seize to Thomas Sheraton

from the book "The Practical Book Of Period Furniture", by Harold Donaldson Eberlein And Abbot McClure.

In the Louis Seize period there was a noticeable return to rectilinear principles in the design of furniture. Vertical and horizontal lines were emphasised and some of the cabinet-work possessed a distinctly perpendicular aspect. While curved surfaces did not altogether disappear from cabinet-work, carcases were in the main rectilinear. Although the amenity of curves in the shapes of chair seats, backs and arms and in the rounding of corners was not disdained, the legs of tables, chairs, sofas, stools and cabinets were almost altogether straight, and the same may be said of stretchers where they occur. Legs and stretchers displaying curves were only the exceptions that proved the rule. Had it not been for the grace of well-placed embellishment, not a little of the furniture might have been open to the charge of angularity. As it was, however, ornament was so adroitly disposed that it enhanced the classic purity of structural lines without the loss of distinction resulting from superfluity.

The representative Sheraton type of furniture, as we are accustomed to understand it, was based entirely on his first book and richly deserves all the distinction and originality he claims for it. In his later books there is a marked and rapid deterioration in the quality of the designs given. Whether it was because Sheraton was failing in inspiration, or because he was trying to accommodate his designs to a popular taste that clamoured loudly for the latest French forms, it would be hard to say. It was probably the latter, for one who had produced types of such artistic excellence a few years before could scarcely sink to such depths of impoverished invention independently of some extraneous cause. This inference is supported by the pathetic laments he utters, as early as 1802, that "a clumsy four-footed stool from France will be admired by our connoisseurs in preference to a first-rate cabinet of English production" or that the British public has brought to pass this deplorable state of affairs by "foolishly staring after French fashions" instead of giving "suitable encouragement to designers and artists" in England. "Instead of this," he says, "when our tradesmen are desirous to draw the best customers to their warerooms, they hasten over to Paris, or otherwise pretend to go there, plainly indicating either our own defects in cabinet-making, or extreme ignorance, that we must be pleased and attracted by the mere sound of French taste."So bad were his later designs, so jejune in character and so impregnated with a debased French feeling that it seems almost unfair, and is certainly prejudicial to a clear understanding of types, to attach Sheraton's name to them. We shall, therefore, pass them by with scant notice.

Sheraton's "Drawing Book," the publication upon which his claims to a distinctive style are wholly based, was a most important and valuable addition to the literature of cabinet-making. Unfortunately a fair-minded reader cannot fail to be annoyed and repelled by the disparaging and acrid attitude he assumes towards the designs and achievements of his predecessors and contemporaries, of whom he speaks uncharitably and contemptuously. Chippendale's designs he brands as "now wholly antiquated and laid aside;" Manwar-ing's book contains nought "but what an apprentice boy may be taught by seven hours' proper instructions;" for some of Shearer's work he did, indeed, express measured admiration and proved the sincerity of his admiration by adopting and really improving some of his designs; but of Hepplewhite, the designer between whose plans and his own there was the closest similarity, a similarity positively perplexing at times, he says, while grudgingly conceding that a few of the designs in his book "are not without merit," "if we compare some of the designs, particularly the chairs, with the newest taste, we shall find that this work has already caught the decline, and perhaps, in a little time will suddenly die in the disorder." This of a volume published but five years before his own

Manet

From: The Judgment of Paris by Ross King

p 52

the viewing public was accustomed to standing close to paintings and studying them minutely and marveling over the delicacy of the handiwork. ... But manet's apparently clumsy brushstrokes and lack of clarity did not lend themselves to this sort of appreciation. The work looked lackadaisical and incomplete because inplaces the undercoat of white primer and the weave of the canvas could clearly be seen. Elsewhere the marks of the paintbrush were visible. Most other painters used thin glazes and fine brushes made of sable to cover their traces, in effect brushing themselves out of their work.

The vast majority of pigments sold in France were no longer mixed with linseed oil which yellowed with age, but rather with poppy oil whose use resulted in more buttery, textured pigments than the smooth ones produced with linseed oil.
Painters using pigments bound in poppy oil therefore needed to work harder to eliminate the bristle marks from their canvases, though a number of them, notably Delacroix and Couture had been leaving behind the visible sign of the brush as a kind of signature of their individuality and workmanship. They were following in the tradition of painters of the Italian Renaissance, such as Leonardo and Tiotian, some of whose works showed how they even smeared paint with their fingertips. But by the nineteenth cetury this seemingly spontaneous approach had disappeared.

On "upstairs gods"

From "South Wind":

You seem to have a quarrel with Moses and his command- 
ments, which we are taught to regard as the keystone of 
ethics. I don't want to discuss things. I want to listen 
to the opinions of a man so different from myself as you 
are. It may do me good. And I think I could stand 
almost anything," he added, with a laugh, " in this 
landscape — in this clear pagan light, as you call it." 

" I used to be interested in such things as a boy. I 
suppose all respectable boys are ; and I was respectable 
even at that tender age. Nowadays, though I still pick 
up an Oriental rug now and then, I have no further use 
for Oriental gods." 

" What is your objection to them ? " 

Mr. Keith paused before replying. Then he said : 

" The drawback of Oriental gods is that they have 
been manufactured by the proletariat for the use of the 
aristocracy. They act accordingly ; that is, they distil 
the morality of their creators which I consider a noxious 
emanation. The classic gods were different. They were 
invented by intellectualists who felt themselves capable 
of maintaining a kind of comradeship with their deities. 
Men and gods were practically on a level. They walked 
hand in hand over the earth. These gods belonged to 
what one might call the horizontal or downstairs 
variety." 

" And those others ? " 

" Oh, they are the upstairs or vertical type. They 
live overhead. Why overhead ? Because they have 
been created by the proletariat. The proletariat loves 
to humiliate itself. Therefore they .manufacture a god
who approves of grovelling, a god who can look down 
upon them. They exalt this deity to an infinite degree 
in point of goodness and distance, and in so doing they 
inevitably abase themselves. Now I disapprove of 
grovelling. 7'hat means I disapprove of upstairs 
gods." 

" Upstairs gods " 

" If you walk into my front door as a distinguished 
visitor I am happy to show you the place. You can 
prowl about the garden, poke your nose into the pantry 
and learn, if it amuses you, all about my private life. 
But if you rent a high attic overlooking my premises and 
stare out of your window all day long, watching my 
movements and noting down everything I do, why, 
damn it, I call that vulgar. Staring is bad form. Vertical 
gods are inquisitive. I don't like to be supervised. I 
don't care about this dossier business. My garden is for 
you and me to walk about in, not for outsiders to stare 
into. Which reminds me that you have not been to see 
me lately. You ought to come and look at my cannas ; 
you really ought ! They are in magnificent bloom just 
now. When shall it be ? " 

Mr. Keith seemed to be already tired of the subject. 
In fact he was as near being bored as ever he allowed 
himself to be. But the other refused to let the conversa- 
tion be side-tracked. He wanted to know. 

" Vertical and horizontal gods. . . . Dear me. Sounds 
rather profane." 

" I have not heard that word for quite a long time." 

" You don't feel the need of any kind of superior 
being to control human affairs ? " 

" Not up to the present. I can find no room in my 
Cosmos for a deity, save as a waste product of human 
weakness, an excrement of the imagination. If you 
gave me the sauciest god that ever sat on a cloud or 
breakfasted with the Village Idiot — 'pon my word, I
shouldn't know what to do with him. I don't collect 
bric-a-brac myself, and the British Museum is dreadfully- 
overstocked. Perhaps the Duchess could make some use 
of him, if he specialized in lace vestments and choral 
mass. By the way, I hear that she is going to be admitted 
into the Roman Church next week ; there is to be a 
luncheon after the ceremony. Are you going ? " 

" Vertical and horizontal gods, ... I never heard 
that distinction made before." 

" It is a difference, my dear Heard. Mankind remains 
in direct contact with the downstairs variety. That 
simplifies matters. But the peculiar position of those 
others — perpendicularly overhead at a vast distance — 
necessitates a cumbersome code of verbal signals, un- 
intelligible to common folk, for the expression of mutual 
desires. You cannot have any god of this kind without 
some such cumbersome contrivance to bridge over the 
gulf and make communication possible. It is called 
theology. It complicates life very considerably. Yes," 
he pursued, " the vertical-god system is not only vulgar ; 
it is perplexing and expensive. Think of the wastage, of 
the myriads of people who have been sacrificed because 
they misinterpreted some enigmatical word in the code. 
Why are you intent on these conundrums ? " 

More from Nepenthe

A directory to the springs of antiquity:

The Fountain of Saint Calogero, described as one of the most famous,
was lukewarm, of ammoniacal and alkaline flavour; a glassful of it
produced the most violent retchings and vomitings. Properly applied,
however, the water had been found to relieve the gout, the discomforts
of child-bearing, leprosy, irritation of the mucous membrane of the
nose, impetigo, strabismus and ophthalmia. If the patient observed care
in his diet, avoiding articles of calorific nature such as fried fish
and boiled lentils, he would find himself greatly benefited by its use
in the case of cornucopic hydrocephalus, flatulence, tympanitis and
varicose veins. It was useful, furthermore, as a cure for the stings of
scorpions and other venomous beasts.

The so-called "Fountain of Paradise," of nitrous ingredients, spurted
forth with a prodigious hissing noise at a temperature of boiling lead,
from so inaccessible a fissure in the rocks that little had been done
to investigate its peculiar properties. It was held none the less to be
efficacious for the distemper known as PLICA POLONICA, and the peasant
folk, mixing its spray with the acorns on which their pigs were
fattened, had observed that these quadrupeds prospered vastly in health
and appearance.

The Fountain of Hercules, laxative and tartaric, had proved its
efficacy in cases of enlarged spleen, hare-lip, vertigo, apoplexy,
cachexia, cacodoria, cacochymia senilis and chilblains. It was also
considered to be a sovereign remedy for that distressing and almost
universal complaint, the piles.

The Fountain known as "La Salina," of arsenical nature, was frequented
chiefly by women who found in its waters an alleviation for troubles
which Monsignor Perrelli does not specify. It was recommended,
moreover, as a sheep-dip.

The Fountain of the Virgin, purgative and blastopeptic, had given
relief to sufferers from the quartan fever, herpes, elephantiasis, and
to all persons of atrobiliary and lunatick temperament.

The so-called "Old Fountain," of sub-acidulate and vitriolique flavour,
chalybeate and cataplastic, was renowned for removing stains from
household linen. Taken in minute doses, under medical advice, it gave
relief to patients afflicted with the wolfe, NOLI ME TANGERE,
crudities, Bablyonian itch, globular pemphlegema, fantastical visions,
koliks, asthma and affections of the heart. It also "fortifies the
stomach, comforts the bowels, reduces the gallstone to sand, the sand
to mud, the mud to water--water which can be passed out of the system by
the usual channels."

The Fountain of Saint Vulcan, anti-blepharous and amygdaloidal, was
charged with such potent minerals that a single spoonful produced a
diarrhoea more distressing to witness than cholera. None the less,
applied externally, it was a wondrous remedy in cases of jaundice,
toothache and open wounds.

The Fountain of the Capon, sedative and scorbutic, was indicated for
rheumatisms of every kind, not excluding sprained limbs, hydrophobia,
lycanthropy, black choler, oppilations and procrastinating catapepsia.

The Fountain known as "Spina Santa" was resorted to by all persons
suffering from maladies of the alimentary canal, such as dysentery,
cloven palate, follicular hepatitis, and trabulated hyperaemia of the
Bivonian passage.

The Fountain of Saint Feto had, by virtue of its smell alone, applied
to her nose as she lay in her coffin, raised from the dead a certain
Anna da Pasto.

The Fountain popularly called "La Pisciarella" was peculiarly adapted
to those ailments which are incidental to childhood and youth--to wit:
chlorosis, St. Vitus' Dance, constipation, ringworm, otootitis and
other perimingeal disturbances, urticaria, moon-sickness, scrofula and
incontinence of urine.

Lastly, the Fountain of Saint Elias, sulphurous and saponaceous, was
renowned for its calming influence upon all who suffered from abuse of
lechery or alcohol, or from ingrowing toe-nails.

This concludes the list.