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"The piano may do for lovesick girls who lace themselves to skeletons, and lunch on
chalk, pickles, and slate pencils. But give me the banjo. . .
When you want genuine music -- music that will come right home to you like a bad
quarter, suffuse your system like strychnine whisky, go right through you like
Brandreth's pills, ramify your whole constitution like the measles, and break out on
your hide like the pin-feather pimples on a picked goose, -- when you want all
this, just smash your piano, and invoke the glory-beaming banjo!"
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-Mark Twain in the San Francisco Dramatic Chronicle, 23 June 1865
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