The Past Is Just Something That's Over.

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.

A Minority Is Only Thought Of As A Minority When It Constitutes Some Kind Of Threat To The Majority, Real Or Imaginary. And No Threat Is Ever Quite Imaginary.

The Quito Telephone Service Is About As Reliable As Roulette.

The Town Is An Advertisement For Itself; None Of Its Charms Are Left To The Visitor's Imagination.

What Irritates Me Is The Bland Way People Go Around Saying, 'oh, Our Attitude Has Changed. We Don't Dislike These People Any More.' But By The Strangest Coincidence, They Haven't Taken Away The Injustice; The Laws Are Still On The Books.