We Are Ruled By Chance But Never

Man Pines To Live But Cannot Endure The Days Of His Life.

The Ruin Of The Human Heart Is Self-interest, Which The American Merchant Calls Self-service. We Have Become A Self-service Populace, And All Our Specious Comforts -the Automatic Elevator, The Escalator, The Cafeteria -are Depriving Us Of Volition And Moral And Physical Energy.

Genius, Like Truth, Has A Shabby And Neglected Mien.

Everything Ultimately Fails, For We Die, And That Is Either The Penultimate Failure Or Our Most Enigmatical Achievement.

Writing Is Conscience, Scruple, And The Farming Of Our Ancestors.