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.

Confusion is a word we have invented for an order which is not understood.

I have found God, but he is insufficient.

Example moves the world more than doctrine.

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

Every time you come to the limit of what is demanded of you, you are faced with the same problem-to be yourself!

I took care of my wheel as one would look after a Rolls Royce. If it needed repairs I always brought it to the same shop on Myrtle Avenue run by a negro named Ed Perry. He handled the bike with kid gloves, you might say. He would always see to it that neither front nor back wheel wobbled. Often he would do a job for me without pay, because, as he put it, he never saw a man so in love with his bike as I was.