Now Is A Fact That

I Have For Myself No Conceivable Complaint To Make, And Yet For American Literature In General, And Its Standing In A Country Where Industrialism And Finance And Science Flourish And The Only Arts That Are Vital And Respected Are Architecture And The Film, I Have A Considerable Complaint.

A Sensational Event Was Changing From The Brown Suit To The Gray The Contents Of His Pockets. He Was Earnest About These Objects. They Were Of Eternal Importance, Like Baseball Or The Republican Party.

Fortune Has Dealt With Me Rather Too Well. I Have Known Little Struggle, Not Much Poverty, Many Generosities. Now And Then I Have, For My Books Or Myself, Been Somewhat Warmly Denounced -- There Was One Good Pastor In California Who Upon Reading My Elmer Gantry Desired To Lead A Mob And Lynch Me, While Another Holy Man In The State Of Maine Wondered If There Was No Respectable And Righteous Way Of Putting Me In Jail.

Good Lord, I Don't Know What 'rights' A Man Has! And I Don't Know The Solution Of Boredom. If I Did, I'd Be The One Philosopher That Had The Cure For Living. But I Do Know That About Ten Times As Many People Find Their Lives Dull, And Unnecessarily Dull, As Ever Admit It; And I Do Believe That If We Busted Out And Admitted It Sometimes, Instead Of Being Nice And Patient And Loyal For Sixty Years, And Then Nice And Patient And Dead For The Rest Of Eternity, Why, Maybe, Possibly, We Might Make Life More Fun.

You Have More People That Love You Than You Know.