Wars Are Made To Make Debt.

America Is A Lunatic Asylum.

Fit For Kings, Formal Gardens Afford An Earthly Elysium And The Odd Impression That We Mere Men Might Actually Control Nature For A Time.

I Should Consent To Breed Under Pressure, If I Were Convinced In Any Way Of The Reasonableness Of Reproducing The Species. But My Nerves And The Nerves Of Any Woman I Could Live With Three Months, Would Produce Only A Victim... Lacking In Impulse, A Mere Bundle Of Discriminations. If I Were Wealthy I Might Subsidize A Stud Of Young Peasants, Or A Tribal Group In Tahiti.

The Secret Of Popular Writing Is Never To Put More On A Given Page Than The Common Reader Can Lap Off It With No Strain Whatsoever On His Habitually Slack Attention.

Utter Originality Is, Of Course, Out Of The Question.