Everyone In The World Is

People Who Have Few Possessions Cling Tightly To Those They Have. That Is One Of The Facts That Make Life So Discouraging.

Nothing Gives Quite The Satisfaction That Doing Things Brings.

In Middle America Men Are Awakening. Like Awkward And Untrained Boys We Begin To Turn Toward Maturity And With Our Awakening We Hunger For Song. But In Our Towns And Fields There Are Few Memory Haunted Places. Here We Stand In Roaring City Streets, On Steaming Coal Heaps, In The Shadow Of Factories From Which Come Only The Grinding Roar Of Machines. We Do Not Sing But Mutter In The Darkness. Our Lips Are Cracked With Dust And With The Heat Of Furnaces. We But Mutter And Feel Our Way Toward The Promise Of Song.

It Is All Right You're Saying You Do Not Need Other People, But There Are A Lot Of People Who Need You.

Realism, In So Far As The Word Means Reality To Life, Is Always Bad Art.