Of All The Animals On Earth, None

We Cannot Live, Suffer Or Die For Somebody Else, For Suffering Is Too Precious To Be Shared.

What Is Most Appalling In An F. Scott Fitzgerald Book Is That It Is Peopleless Fiction: Fitzgerald Writes About Spectral, Muscledsuits; Dresses, Hats, And Sleeves Which Have Some Sort Of Vague, Libidinous Throb. These Are Plainly The Product Of Sickness.

Intellectual Sodomy, Which Comes From The Refusal To Be Simple About Plain Matters, Is As Gross And Abundant Today As Sexual Perversion And They Are Nowise Different From One Another.

I Would Rather Take Hellebore Than Spend A Conversation With A Good, Little Man.

There Are Men That Are Birds, And Their Raiment Is Trembling Feathers, For They Show Their Souls To Everyone And Everything That Is Ungentle Or Untutored Or Evil Or Mockery Is As A Rude Stone Cast At Them, And They Suffer All Day Long, Or As Paul Remarks They Are Slain Every Moment.