Every work of art is an abstraction from time; it denies the reality of change and decay and death.

Architecture is either the prophecy of an unformed society or the tomb of a finished one.

This metropolitan world, then, is a world where flesh and blood is less real than paper and ink and celluloid.

By his very success in inventing labor-saving devices, modern man has manufactured an abyss of boredom that only the privileged classes in earlier civilizations have ever fathomed.

To curb the machine and limit art to handicraft is a denial of opportunity.

The final goal of human effort is man's self-transforma tion.

Henceforward, I shout to the heavens, I shall deliver no more lectures on behalf of good causes: I am the good cause that denies the need for such lectures. Avaunt, importuning world! Back to my cell.