Nothing In Our Times Has

Woman Is The Most Superstitious Animal Beneath The Moon. When A Woman Has A Premonition That Tuesday Will Be A Disaster, To Which A Man Pays No Heed, He Will Very Likely Lose His Fortune Then. This Is Not Meant To Be An Occult Or Mystic Remark. The Female Body Is A Vessel, And The Universe Drops Its Secrets Into Her Far More Quickly Than It Communicates Them To The Male.

Evil, Which Is Our Companion All Our Days, Is Not To Be Treated As A Foe. It Is Wrong To Cocker Vice, But We Grow Narrow And Pithless If We Are Furtive About It, For This Is At Best A Pretense, And The Sage Knows Good And Evil Are Kindred. The Worst Of Men Harm Others, And The Best Injure Themselves.

A Man Who Can Be Entertaining For A Full Day Will Be In His Grave By Night-fall.

What Is Most Appalling In An F. Scott Fitzgerald Book Is That It Is Peopleless Fiction: Fitzgerald Writes About Spectral, Muscledsuits; Dresses, Hats, And Sleeves Which Have Some Sort Of Vague, Libidinous Throb. These Are Plainly The Product Of Sickness.

We Are A Most Solitary People, And We Live, Repelled By One Another, In The Gray, Outcast Cities Of Cain.