There is a strange and mighty race of people called the Americans who are rapidly becoming the coldest in the world because of this cruel, man-eating idol, lucre.

We are a most solitary people, and we live, repelled by one another, in the gray, outcast cities of Cain.

Men are too unstable to be just; they are crabbed because they have not passed water at the usual time, or testy because they have not been stroked or praised.

Herman Melville was as separated from a civilized literature as the lost Atlantis was said to have been from the great peoples of the earth.

Narcissus never wrote well nor was a friend.

The Americans have always been food, sex, and spirit revivalists.

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