I Was Brought Up To Believe That

His Name Was George F. Babbitt, And . . . He Was Nimble In The Calling Of Selling Houses For More Than People Could Afford To Pay.

A Village In A Country Which Is Taking Pains To Become Altogether Standardized And Pure, Which Aspires To Succeed Victorian England As The Chief Mediocrity Of The World, Is No Longer Merely Provincial, No Longer Downy And Restful In Its Leaf-shadowed Ignorance. It Is A Force Seeking To Conquer The Earth. Sure Of Itself, It Bullies Other Civilizations, As A Traveling Salesman In A Brown Derby Conquers The Wisdom Of China And Tacks Advertisements Of Cigarettes Over Arches For Centuries Dedicated To The Sayings Of Confucius.

I Love America, But I Don't Like It.

It Isn't What You Earn But How Spend It That Fixes Your Class.

The Cocktail Filled Him With A Whirling Exhilaration Behind Which He Was Aware Of Devastating Desires—to Rush Places In Fast Motors, To Kiss Girls, To Sing, To Be Witty. ... He Perceived That He Had Gifts Of Profligacy Which Had Been Neglected. —chapter 8