History is the myth, the true myth, of man's fall made manifest in time.

The real leader has no need to lead - he is content to point the way.

To paint is to love again, and to love is to live life to the fullest.

The full and joyful acceptance of the worst in oneself may be the only sure way of transforming it.

Often, when following the trail which meanders over the hills, I pull myself up in an effort to encompass the glory and the grandeur which envelops the whole horizon. Often, when the clouds pile up in the north and the sea is churned with white caps, I say to myself: "This is the California that men dreamed of years ago, this is the Pacific that Balboa looked out on from the Peak of Darien, this is the face of the earth as the Creator intended it to look.

New York! The white prisons, the sidewalks swarming with maggots, the breadlines, the opium joints that are built like palaces, the kikes that are there, the lepers, the thugs, and above all, the ennui, the monotony of faces, streets, legs, houses, skyscrapers, meals, posters, jobs, crimes, loves... A whole city erected over a hollow pit of nothingness. Meaningless. Absolute meaningless.

The only difference between the Adamic man and the man of today is that the one was born to Paradise and the other has to create it.