The new American finds his challenge and his love in the traffic-choked streets, skies nested in smog, choking with the acids of industry, the screech of rubber and houses leashed in against one another while the town lets wither a time and die.

I see too many men delay their exits with a sickly, slow reluctance to leave the stage. It's bad theater as well as bad living.

In uncertainty I am certain that underneath their topmost layers of frailty men want to be good and want to be loved.

My imagination will get me a passport to hell one day.

I believe that love cannot be bought except with love.

Always dream and shoot higher than you know you can do...Try to be better than yourself.

These too are of a burning color--not orange, not gold, but if pure gold were liquid and could raise a cream, that golden cream might be like the color of the poppies.