Azazel turns a sot into a man of the most refined taste conceivable, thereby leaving him utterly unable to enjoy anything at all.

The idea that a fun drunk is fun only because he’s a drunk isn’t exactly original to Asimov and isn’t exactly world-shattering, but the satire here on success being measured by one’s ability to ruin other people’s lives is nicely handled. About par for an Azazel story.

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