God Very Seldom Succeeds. He Has Very

The Very Utterness Of The Crash And Ruin, The Desperation Of The Case, Might Be Its Hope. On Ruins One Can Begin To Build. Anyhow, Looking Out From Ruins One Clearly Sees; There Are No Obstructing Walls.

It Was A Book To Kill Time For Those Who Liked It Better Dead.

Work Is A Dull Thing; You Cannot Get Away From That. The Only Agreeable Existence Is One Of Idleness, And That Is Not, Unfortunately, Always Compatible With Continuing To Exist At All.

Life Is One Long Struggle To Disinter Oneself, To Keep One's Head Above The Accumulations, The Ever Deepening Layers Of Objects ... Which Attempt To Cover One Over, Steadily, Almost Irresistibly, Like Falling Snow.

All Sorts Of Articles And Letters Appear In The Papers About Women. Profound Questions Are Raised Concerning Them. Should They Smoke? Should They Work? Vote? Marry? Exist? Are Not Their Skirts Too Short, Or Their Sleeves? Have They A Sense Of Humor, Of Honor, Of Direction? Are Spinsters Superfluous? But How Seldom Similar Inquiries Are Propounded About Men.