I have always used the world of make-believe with a certain desperation.

In a world that holds books and babies and canyon trails, why should one condemn oneself to live day-in, day-out with people one does not like, and sell oneself to chaperone and correct them?

. . . work even when I'm satisfied with it is never my child I love nor my servant I've brought to heel. It's always busy work I do with my left hand, and part of me watches grudging the wastes of a lifetime.

The trouble is not that we are never happy-it is that happiness is so episodical.

Most people are shaped to the form of their culture because of the enormous malleability of their original endowment. They are plastic to the moulding force of the society into which they are born. It does not matter whether, with the Northwest Coast, it requires delusions of self-reference, or with our own civilization the amassing of possessions. In any case the great mass of individuals take quite readily the form that is presented to them.

The life history of the individual is first and foremost an accommodation to the patterns and standards traditionally handed down in his community

As a matter of history great developments in art have often been remarkably separate from religious motivation and use.