No One Ever Hates Without A Cause.

California Is A Tragic Country — Like Palestine, Like Every Promised Land. Its Short History Is A Fever-chart Of Migrations — The Land Rush, The Gold Rush, The Oil Rush, The Movie Rush, The Okie Fruit-picking Rush, The Wartime Rush To The Aircraft Factories — Followed, In Each Instance, By Counter-migrations Of The Disappointed And Unsuccessful, Moving Sorrowfully Homeward.

But Your Book Is Wrong, Mrs. Strunk, Says George, When It Tells You That Jim Is The Substitute I Found For A Real Son, A Real Kid Brother, A Real Husband, A Real Wife. Jim Wasn't A Substitute For Anything. And There Is No Substitute For Jim, If You'll Forgive My Saying So, Anywhere.

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.

Only Those Who Are Capable Of Silliness Can Be Called Truly Intelligent.

She Is Sighing Deeply Now With Sympathy And Delight - The Delight Of An Addict When Someone Else Admits He's Hooked, Too.