This Ain't A War... It's A Goddam

The Only Excuse For A Novelist, Aside From The Entertainment And Vicarious Living His Books Give The People Who Read Them, Is As A Sort Of Second-class Historian Of The Age He Lives In. The "reality" He Missed By Writing About Imaginary People, He Gains By Being Able To Build A Reality More Nearly Out Of His Own Factual Experience Than A Plain Historian Or Biographer Can.

We Work To Eat To Get The Strength To Work To Eat To Get The Strength To Work.

People Don't Choose Their Careers; They Are Engulfed By Them.

The Man Who Invented Eskimo Pie Made A Million Dollars, So One Is Told, But E.e. Cummings, Whose Verse Has Been Appearing Off Andon For Three Years Now, And Whose Experiments Should Not Be More Appalling To Those Interested In Poetry Than The Experiment Of Surrounding Ice-cream With A Layer Of Chocolate Was To Those Interested In Soda Fountains, Has Hardly Made A Dent In The Doughy Minds Of Our So-called Poetry Lovers.

Time Has An Undertaking Establishment On Every Block And Drives His Coffin Nails Faster Than The Steam Riveters Rivet Or The Stenographers Type Or The Tickers Tick Out Fours And Eights And Dollar Signs And Ciphers.