Emotion Is Always New.

Sacrificing The Earth For Paradise Is Giving Up The Substance For The Shadow.

In Joined Hands There Is Still Some Token Of Hope, In The Clenched Fist None.

...the Girls Chirped And Chatted Like Uncaged Warblers. They Were Delirious With Joy... Intoxications Of Life’s Morning! Enchanted Years! The Wing Of A Dragonfly Trembles! Oh, Reader, Whoever You May Be, Do You Have Such Memories? Have You Walked In The Underbrush, Pushing Aside Branches For The Charming Head Behind You? Have You Slid Laughing, Down Some Slope Wet With Rain, With The Woman You Loved?

Nothing Can Be More Depressing Than To Expose, Naked To The Light Of Thought, The Hideous Growth Of Argot. Indeed It Is Like A Sort Of Repellent Animal Intended To Dwell In Darkness Which Has Been Dragged Out Of Its Cloaca. One Seems To See A Horned And Living Creature Viciously Struggling To Be Restored To The Place Where It Belongs. One Word Is Like A Claw, Another Like A Sightless And Bleeding Eye; And There Are Phrases Which Clutch Like The Pincers Of A Crab. And All Of It Is Alive With The Hideous Vitality Of Things That Have Organized Themselves Amid Disorganization.

There Exists, At The Bottom Of All Abasement And Misfortune, A Last Extreme Which Rebels And Joins Battle With The Forces Of Law And Respectability In A Desperate Struggle, Waged Partly By Cunning And Partly By Violence, At Once Sick And Ferocious, In Which It Attacks The Prevailing Social Order With The Pin-pricks Of Vice And The Hammer-blows Of Crime.