The Nazis Were Not Right To Hate

To Live Sanely In Los Angeles ... You Have To Cultivate The Art Of Staying Awake. You Must Learn To Resist (firmly But Not Tensely) The Unceasing Hypnotic Suggestions Of The Radio, The Billboards, The Movies And The Newspapers; Those Demon Voices Which Are Forever Whispering In Your Ear What You Should Desire, What You Should Fear, What You Should Wear And Eat And Drink And Enjoy, What You Should Think And Do And Be.

I Doubt If One Ever Accepts A Belief Until One Urgently Needs It.

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

Berlin Is A Skeleton Which Aches In The Cold: It Is My Own Skeleton Aching. I Feel In My Bones The Sharp Ache Of The Frost In The Girders Of The Overhead Railway, In The Iron-work Of Balconies, In Bridges, Tramlines, Lamp-standards, Latrines. The Iron Throbs And Shrinks, The Stone And The Bricks Ache Dully, The Plaster Is Numb.

The Landscape, Like Los Angeles Itself, Is Transitional. Impermanence Haunts The City, With Its Mushroom Industries--the Aircraft Perpetually Becoming Obsolete, The Oil Which Must One Day Be Exhausted, The Movies Which Fill America's Theatres For Six Months And Are Forgotten. Many Of Its Houses--especially The Grander Ones--have A Curiously Disturbing Atmosphere, A Kind Of Psychological Dankness Which Smells Of Anxiety, Overdrafts, Uneasy Lust, Whisky, Divorce And Lies.