Every decision you make is a mistake.

Every decision you make is a mistake.

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.

Everything ultimately fails, for we die, and that is either the penultimate failure or our most enigmatical achievement.

Man hoards himself when he has nothing to give away.

One of the weaknesses in the cooperative is that it has never been sufficiently leavened by the imagination. This is a quick-silver faculty, and likely to be a cause of worry to any collective settlement.

I know sage, wormwood, and hyssop, but I can't smell character unless it stinks.