Communists Are The Last Optimists.

The Country Of The Tourist Pamphlet Always Is Another Country, An Embarrassing Abstraction Of The Desirable That, Thank God, Does Not Exist On This Planet, Where There Are Always Ants And Bad Smells And Empty Coca-cola Bottles To Keep The Grubby Finger-print Of Reality Upon The Beautiful.

Writers Themselves Don't Analyze What They Do; To Analyze Would Be To Look Down While Crossing A Canyon On A Tightrope.

Books Dont Need Batteries

One Can't Measure How A Mood Of Confidence Comes About.

Peace. The Upland Serenity Of High Altitude, The Openness Of Grassland Without Indigenous Bush Or Trees; The Greening, Yellowing Or Silver-browning That Prevailed, According To Season.