Narcissus Never Wrote Well Nor Was A

We Are A Most Solitary People, And We Live, Repelled By One Another, In The Gray, Outcast Cities Of Cain.

Though Man Is The Only Beast That Can Write, He Has Small Reason To Be Proud Of It. When He Utters Something That Is Wise It Is Nothing That The River Horse Does Not Know, And Most Of His Creations Are The Result Of Accident.

Those Who Write For Lucre Or Fame Are Grosser Than The Cartel Robbers, For They Steal The Genius Of The People, Which Is Its Will To Resist Evil.

The Ruin Of The Human Heart Is Self-interest, Which The American Merchant Calls Self-service. We Have Become A Self-service Populace, And All Our Specious Comforts -the Automatic Elevator, The Escalator, The Cafeteria -are Depriving Us Of Volition And Moral And Physical Energy.

Narcissus Never Wrote Well Nor Was A Friend.