Chap­ter D sets the tone with the rede­f­i­n­i­tion of Damn, a word that Bierce clev­er­ly allows to shift in mean­ing depend­ing on who defines it—be it the­olo­gian, philoso­pher, or com­mon man. This ambi­gu­i­ty allows him to sat­i­rize how lan­guage, espe­cial­ly in moral con­texts, is shaped more by per­cep­tion than prin­ci­ple. Bierce uses the term to mock not just reli­gious doc­trine, but the human ten­den­cy to tai­lor judg­ment for con­ve­nience. Through this lens, con­dem­na­tion becomes a flex­i­ble tool used selec­tive­ly. His wit reveals how moral lan­guage often serves per­son­al bias rather than uni­ver­sal truth.

With Dance, Bierce com­bines cel­e­bra­tion and sub­ver­sion. He frames it as both a form of joy and a sub­tle rebel­lion against social restraint. While out­ward­ly inno­cent, dance in his view often masks flir­ta­tion or impropriety—highlighting the fine line between cul­ture and indul­gence. The def­i­n­i­tion under­scores how phys­i­cal expres­sion can be a form of cod­ed com­mu­ni­ca­tion, espe­cial­ly in soci­eties that restrict open dia­logue. His com­men­tary invites read­ers to con­sid­er how cul­tur­al prac­tices reflect deep­er desires that deco­rum tries to sup­press.

Dan­ger becomes a study in courage—or the lack there­of. Bierce defines it as some­thing we claim to face head-on but often ignore until it’s unavoid­able. The entry strips away the hero­ic image of brav­ery and replaces it with pro­cras­ti­na­tion dis­guised as strength. Peo­ple, he sug­gests, tol­er­ate threats only until they’re forced to react. This cyn­i­cal real­ism high­lights how fear is man­aged more through avoid­ance than val­or. Bierce doesn’t mock fear itself, but how it’s roman­ti­cized with­out true under­stand­ing.

In Debt, he cap­tures eco­nom­ic depen­den­cy not as an unfor­tu­nate state, but as a sys­tem designed to imprison with invis­i­ble chains. Bierce equates owing mon­ey with moral fail­ure and sys­temic exploita­tion, sug­gest­ing that mod­ern economies thrive on peo­ple nev­er being ful­ly free. His com­men­tary links finance to con­trol, imply­ing that wealth often grows not from cre­ation, but from bur­den­ing oth­ers. The debtor becomes less a par­tic­i­pant in the econ­o­my and more a cap­tive of it. Bierce’s satire here cri­tiques capitalism’s dark­er mechan­ics with­out direct­ly nam­ing them.

Debauchee car­ries a humor­ous­ly damn­ing tone. While soci­ety often paints indul­gence as a flaw, Bierce frames it as the log­i­cal end of unguard­ed plea­sure. The debauchee is not mere­ly a sin­ner but a mir­ror reflect­ing the desires that oth­ers sup­press. His lan­guage sug­gests that con­dem­na­tion often masks envy, and that those most crit­i­cal of vice may sim­ply lack oppor­tu­ni­ty. Bierce turns moral scorn into a form of hypocrisy, pok­ing at the social rit­u­als that uphold virtue pub­licly while desir­ing excess pri­vate­ly.

Dawn, usu­al­ly tied to renew­al, is depict­ed as a favorite time of day for those eager to dis­play dis­ci­pline. Bierce mocks the ear­ly riser’s pride, imply­ing that virtue gained by deny­ing sleep is as shal­low as it is tir­ing. His cri­tique is aimed not at dili­gence, but the per­for­mance of it—the need to be seen as vir­tu­ous rather than actu­al­ly being so. In a soci­ety obsessed with pro­duc­tiv­i­ty, he sug­gests, rou­tine often replaces reflec­tion. By wak­ing ear­ly, one may win social praise while los­ing per­son­al peace.

Datary, a less com­mon term, receives Bierce’s sharp eccle­si­as­ti­cal com­men­tary. He defines it as a cleric’s admin­is­tra­tive role tied more to pow­er than spir­i­tu­al call­ing. Through this, he cri­tiques how insti­tu­tions of faith often pri­or­i­tize bureau­cra­cy over belief. The tone is dry but cut­ting, sug­gest­ing that religion’s reach into human affairs has less to do with sal­va­tion and more with influ­ence. This entry fits with­in his broad­er theme of expos­ing the mun­dane machin­ery behind exalt­ed sys­tems.

Dead receives one of the dark­est and most poet­ic treat­ments. Bierce views death not as trag­ic, but inevitable, strip­ping it of mys­tique while main­tain­ing its final­i­ty. He writes with the calm of some­one resigned to fate, por­tray­ing the dead as the only tru­ly silent observers of life’s chaos. It’s not death he mocks, but the ways we avoid its real­i­ty until it forces itself upon us. In doing so, he grants the dead a strange dignity—free from the illu­sions the liv­ing cling to.

Deca­logue, or the Ten Com­mand­ments, is dis­sect­ed not as a divine code, but as a social­ly con­ve­nient moral check­list. Bierce implies that com­mand­ments are fol­lowed when con­ve­nient and ignored when not, turn­ing divine law into moral sug­ges­tion. His satire reframes these guide­lines as a reflec­tion of soci­etal con­trol rather than eter­nal truth. Moral­i­ty, he sug­gests, is often inter­pret­ed through the lens of self-inter­est and cir­cum­stance. The sacred becomes con­di­tion­al, and obe­di­ence becomes oppor­tunis­tic.

With Diary, Bierce tar­gets self-reflec­tion, paint­ing it as an exer­cise in self-decep­tion rather than truth-telling. The diary writer, in his view, records not what hap­pened, but what they wish had hap­pened. Hon­esty is sac­ri­ficed for nar­ra­tive con­trol. He cri­tiques how peo­ple reshape their pasts to match their present self-image, prov­ing that mem­o­ry is as flawed as it is per­son­al. Bierce reminds us that intro­spec­tion is often more about appear­ance than insight.

By the end of this chap­ter, Bierce has unrav­eled moral­i­ty, dis­ci­pline, and belief with sur­gi­cal satire. His def­i­n­i­tions don’t destroy meaning—they dis­sect it, lay­er by lay­er. Through irony, he expos­es how human lan­guage often fails to cap­ture the com­plex­i­ties of expe­ri­ence, instead sim­pli­fy­ing, flat­ter­ing, or dis­tort­ing it. Each entry in this chap­ter forces read­ers to look again at the words they use and the val­ues they reflect. Bierce’s mas­tery lies in his abil­i­ty to make cyn­i­cism feel like clar­i­ty and wit feel like wis­dom.