Frank Davis

In a time when most smokers seem quite apathetic and despairing in the face of their ever-mounting persecution, I was wondering this morning why I wasn’t. Smokers, I was thinking, are almost punch-drunk with the amount of punishment they’ve been taking. They’re swaying on their feet, their hands hanging limply by their side, waiting for the next hammer blow below the belt. In a boxing match, the referee would have stepped in and stopped the fight. But in this match there’s no referee. So it just goes on and on and on. So why am I still on my feet, moving and dodging, and optimistic that we smokers will win in the end?

The answer, I thought, most likely lay in my own personal history. In a world of incessant antismoking propaganda, I’ve been a lot less propagandised than most. For I spent most of the first formative seventeen years…

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