Sometimes Awful Things Have Their

Do You Think It Makes People Nasty To Be Loved? You Know It Doesn’t! Then Why Should It Make Them Nice To Be Loathed? While You’re Being Persecuted, You Hate What’s Happening To You, You Hate The People Who Are Making It Happen; You’re In A World Of Hate. Why, You Wouldn’t Recognize Love If You Met It! You’d Suspect Love! You’d Think There Was Something Behind It—some Motive—some Trick.

I Doubt If One Ever Accepts A Belief Until One Urgently Needs It.

California Is A Tragic Country — Like Palestine, Like Every Promised Land. Its Short History Is A Fever-chart Of Migrations — The Land Rush, The Gold Rush, The Oil Rush, The Movie Rush, The Okie Fruit-picking Rush, The Wartime Rush To The Aircraft Factories — Followed, In Each Instance, By Counter-migrations Of The Disappointed And Unsuccessful, Moving Sorrowfully Homeward.

I Often Feel That Worse Than The Most Fiendish Nazis Were Those Germans Who Went Along With The Persecution Of The Jews Not Because They Really Disliked Them But Because It Was The Thing.

Berlin Is A Skeleton Which Aches In The Cold: It Is My Own Skeleton Aching. I Feel In My Bones The Sharp Ache Of The Frost In The Girders Of The Overhead Railway, In The Iron-work Of Balconies, In Bridges, Tramlines, Lamp-standards, Latrines. The Iron Throbs And Shrinks, The Stone And The Bricks Ache Dully, The Plaster Is Numb.