If what we worship fail us, still the fire burns on, and it is much to have believed.
Time! Joyless emblem of the greed of millions, robber of the best which earth can give.
On the neck of the young man sparkles no gem so gracious as enterprise. Youth condemns; maturity condones.
All books are either dreams or swords, you can cut, or you can drug, with words.
This is America, This vast, confused beauty, This staring, restless speed of loveliness, Mighty, overwhelming, crude, of all forms, Making grandeur out of profusion, Afraid of no incongruities, Sublime in its audacity, Bizarre breaker of moulds.
Art is the desire of a man to express himself, to record the reactions of his personality to the world he lives in.