I'm A Pessimist About Probabilities,

Moment To Moment, It Turns Out, Is Not God's Conception, Or Nature's. It Is Man Conversing With Himself About And Through A Piece Of Machinery He Created."we Effectively Became "time-keepers, And Then Time-savers, And Now Time-servers" With The Invention Of The Clock."

The Earth Is The Lord's Fullness Thereof: This Is No Longer A Hollow Dictum Of Religion, But A Directive For Economic Action Toward Human Brotherhood.

He Who Touches The Soil Of Manhattan And The Pavement Of New York, Touches, Whenever He Knows Or Not, Walt Whitman.

Iron And Coal Dominated Everywhere, From Grey To Black: The Black Boots, The Black Stove-pipe Hat, The Black Coach Or Carriage, The Black Iron Frame Of The Hearth, The Black Cooking Pots And Pans And Stoves. Was It A Mourning? Was It Protective Coloration? Was It Mere Depression Of The Senses? No Matter What The Original Color Of The Paleotechnic Milieu Might Be It Was Soon Reduced By Reason Of The Soot And Cinders That Accompanied Its Activities, To Its Characteristic Tones, Grey, Dirty-brown, Black.

Adventure Is Humdrum And Routine Unless One Assimilates It, Unless One Relates It To A Central Core Which Grows Within And Gives It Contour And Significance. Raw Experience Is Empty, Just As Empty As The Forecastle Of A Whaler As In A Chamber Of A Counting House; For It Is Not What One Does, But In A Manifold Sense, What One Realizes That Keeps Existence From Being Vain And Trivial.