I Do Not Know If All Cops

And The Mind That Has Conceived A Plan Of Living Must Never Lose Sight Of The Chaos Against Which That Pattern Was Conceived. That Goes For Societies As Well As For Individuals.

I Was Never More Hated Than When I Tried To Be Honest. Or When, Even As Just Now I've Tried To Articulate Exactly What I Felt To Be The Truth. No One Was Satisfied

At Best Americans Give But A Limited Attention To History. Too Much Happens Too Rapidly, And Before We Can Evaluate It, Or Exhaust Its Meaning Or Pleasure, There Is Something New To Concern Us. Ours Is The Tempo Of The Motion Picture, Not That Of The Still Camera, And We Waste Experience As We Wasted The Forest.

Life Is As The Sea, Art A Ship In Which Man Conquers Life's Crushing Formlessness, Reducing It To A Course, A Series Of Swells, Tides And Wind Currents Inscribed On A Chart.

Everywhere I've Turned Somebody Has Wanted To Sacrifice Me For My Own Good—only /they/ Were The Ones Who Benefited. And Now We Start On The Old Sacrificial Merry-go-round. At What Point Do We Stop?