No One Over Thirty-five Is Worth Meeting

The River Of Truth Is Always Splitting Up Into Arms That Reunite. Islanded Between Them, The Inhabitants Argue For A Lifetime As To Which Is The Mainstream.

Like Those Crabs Which Dress Themselves With Seaweed, We Wear Belief And Custom.

In Youth The Life Of Reason Is Not In Itself Sufficient; Afterwards The Life Of Emotion, Except For Short Periods, Becomes Unbearable.

When I Contemplate The Accumulation Of Guilt And Remorse Which, Like A Garbage-can, I Carry Through Life, And Which Is Fed Not Only By The Lightest Action But By The Most Harmless Pleasure, I Feel Man To Be Of All Living Things The Most Biologically Incompetent And Ill-organized. Why Has He Acquired A Seventy Years Life-span Only To Poison It Incurably By The Mere Being Of Himself? Why Has He Thrown Conscience, Like A Dead Rat, To Putrefy In The Well?

An Aesthetic Movement With A Revolutionary Dynamism And No Popular Appeal Should Proceed Quite Otherwise Than By Public Scandal, Publicity Stunt, Noisy Expulsion And Excommunication.