Utility is our national shibboleth: the savior of the American businessman is fact and his uterine half-brother, statistics.

Man is at the nadir of his stregth when the Earth, the seas, the mountains are not in him, for without them his soul is unsourced, and he has no images by which to abide.

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.

Utility is our national shibboleth: the savior of the American businessman is fact and his uterine half-brother, statistics.

Who has enough credit in this world to pay for his mistakes?

Every decision you make is a mistake.

Men are mad most of their lives; few live sane, fewer die so. The acts of people are baffling unless we realize that their wits are disordered. Man is driven to justice by his lunacy.