What is not in the open street is false, derived, that is to say, literature.

There will be more calamities, more death, more despair. Not the slightest indication of a change anywhere. The cancer of our time is eating us away. Our heroes have killed themselves, or are killing themselves.

If men cease to believe that they will one day become gods then they will surely become worms.

Perhaps I am still very much of an American. That is to say, naïve, optimistic, gullible. In the eyes of a European, what am I but an American to the core, an American who exposes his Americanism like a sore. Like it or not, I am a product of this land of plenty, a believer in superabundance, a believer in miracles.

When you know what men are capable of you marvel neither at their sublimity nor their baseness. There are no limits in either direction apparently.

I had learned to harness ignorance with presumption. I was ready to become an unacknowledged watercolorist.

The cancer of time is eating us away