Dreams Have Only The Pigmentation Of Fact.

New York Rose Out Of The Water Like A Great Wave That Found It Impossible To Return Again And So Remained There In Horror, Peering Out Of The Million Windows Man Had Caged It With.

One's Life Is Peculiar To One's Own When One Has Invented It.

God, Children Know Something They Can't Tell; They Like Red Riding Hood And The Wolf In Bed!

When One Wants To Become Cognizant Of The Color And The Texture Of The Soil, One Does Not Get A Ladder; One Gets A Shovel. When One Wants To Get Into Touch With The Texture Of The Universal Mind, One Does Not Go To Boston; One Goes To The Bowery.

We Are But Skin About A Wind, With Muscles Clenched Against Mortality.