No One Ever Hates Without A Cause.

The Talk Of Pale, Burning-eyed Students, Anarchists And Utopians All, Over Tea And Cigarettes In A Locked Room Long Past Midnight, Is Next Morning Translated, With The Literalness Of Utter Innocence, Into The Throwing Of The Bomb, The Shouting Of The Proud Slogan, The Dragging Away Of The Young Dreamer-doer, Still Smiling, To The Dungeon And The Firing Squad.

In The Eternal Lazy Morning Of The Pacific, Days Slip Away Into Months, Months Into Years; The Seasons Are Reduced To The Faintest Nuance By The Great Central Fact Of The Sunshine; One Might Pass A Lifetime, It Seems, Between Two Yawns, Lying Bronzed And Naked In The Sand.

A Minority Is Only Thought Of As A Minority When It Constitutes Some Kind Of Threat To The Majority, Real Or Imaginary. And No Threat Is Ever Quite Imaginary.

Hollywood's Two Polar Types Are The Cynically Drunken Writer Aggressively Nursing A Ten-year-old Reputation And The Theatrically Self-conscious Hermit Who Strides The Boulevard In Sandals, Home-made Shorts And A Prophetic Beard, Muttering Against The Age Of The Machines.

The More I Think About Myself, The More I'm Persuaded That, As A Person, I Really Don't Exist. That Is One Of The Reasons Why I Can't Believe In Any Orthodox Religion: I Cannot Believe In My Own Soul. No, I Am A Chemical Compound, Conditioned By Environment And Education. My "character" Is Simply A Repertoire Of Acquired Tricks, My Conversation A Repertoire Of Adaptations And Echoes, My "feelings" Are Dictated By Purely Physical, External Stimuli.