To Write Is A Humiliation.

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

A Man Who Can Be Entertaining For A Full Day Will Be In His Grave By Night-fall.

We Are Ruled By Chance But Never Have Enough Patience To Accept Its Despotism.

Utility Is Our National Shibboleth: The Savior Of The American Businessman Is Fact And His Uterine Half-brother, Statistics.

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.