Realism, In So Far As The Word

It Has Long Been My Desire To Be A Little Worm In The Fair Apple Of Progress.

The Writing Of Words Can Lead To All Sorts Of Absurdities.

I Am Constantly Amazed At How Little Painters Know About Painting, Writers About Writing, Merchants About Business, Manufacturers About Manufacturing. Most Men Just Drift.

It Is Apparent That Nations Cannot Exist For Us. They Are The Playthings Of Children, Such Toys As Children Break From Boredom And Weariness. The Branch Of A Tree Is My Country. My Freedom Sleeps In A Mulberry Bush. My Country Is In The Shivering Legs Of A Little Lost Dog.

Would It Not Be Better To Have It Understood That Realism, In So Far As The Word Means Reality To Life, Is Always Bad Art -- Although It May Possibly Be Very Good Journalism?