Reality, no matter how utopian, seems to be something people need to frequently take a holiday from.

Being cared for when one is dead is less satisfactory than being cared for when one is alive.

There are few who would not rather be taken in adultery than in provocation.

The instinct of acquisitiveness has more perverts, I believe, than the instinct of sex. At any rate, people seem to me odder about money than about even their amours.

All that is needed is money and a candidate who can be coached to look sincere. Political principles and plans for specific action have come to lose most of their importance. The personality of the candidate, the way he is projected by the advertising experts, are the things that really matter.

Both of us victims of the same twentieth-century plague. Not the Black Death, this time; the Gray Life.

Unless we choose to decentralize and to use applied science, not as the end to which human beings are to be made the means, but as the means to producing a race of free individuals, we have only two alternatives to choose from: either a number of national