The More We Elaborate Our

But The Point Is, Now, At This Moment, Or Any Moment, We're Only Cross-sections Of Our Real Selves. What We Really Are Is The Whole Stretch Of Ourselves, All Our Time, And When We Come To The End Of This Life, All Those Selves, All Our Time, Will Be Us - The Real You, The Real Me. And Then Perhaps We'll Find Ourselves In Another Time, Which Is Only Another Kind Of Dream.

There Is Romance, The Genuine Glinting Stuff, In Typewriters, And Not Merely In Their Development From Clumsy Giants Into Agile Dwarfs, But In The History Of Their Manufacture, Which Is Filled With Raids, Battles, Lonely Pioneers, Great Gambles, Hope, Fear, Despair, Triumph. If Some Of Our Novels Could Be Written By The Typewriters Instead Of On Them, How Much Better They Would Be.

Man, The Creature Who Knows He Must Die, Who Has Dreams Larger Than His Destiny, Who Is Forever Working A Confidence Trick On Himself, Needs An Ally. Mine Has Been Tobacco.

I Have Always Been Delighted At The Prospect Of A New Day, A Fresh Try, One More Start, With Perhaps A Bit Of Magic Waiting Somewhere Behind The Morning.

California, That Advance Post Of Our Civilization, With Its Huge Aircraft Factories, Tv And Film Studios, Automobile Way Of Life... Its Flavourless Cosmopolitanism, Its Charlatan Philosophies And Religions, Its Lack Of Anything Old And Well-tried Rooted In Tradition And Character.