The earnings of a poet could be reckoned by a metaphysician rather than a bookkeeper.

A man who can be entertaining for a full day will be in his grave by night-fall.

No country has suffered so much from the ruins of war while being at peace as the American.

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.

Man hoards himself when he has nothing to give away.

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.

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