The Writer Is One Who,

There Is No Moment That Exceeds In Beauty That Moment When One Looks At A Woman And Finds That She Is Looking At You In The Same Way That You Are Looking At Her. The Moment In Which She Bestows That Look That Says, "proceed With Your Evil Plan, Sumbitch.

Capitalism Places Every Man In Competition With His Fellows For A Share Of The Available Wealth. A Few People Accumulate Big Piles, But Most Do Not. The Sense Of Community Falls Victim To This Struggle.

The Privileged Classes Can Afford Psychoanalysis And Whiskey. Whereas All We Get Is Sermons And Sour Wine. This Is Manifestly Unfair. I Protest, Silently.

I Don't Believe That We Are What We Do Although Many Thinkers Argue Otherwise. I Believe That What We Do Is, Very Often, A Poor Approximation Of What We Are -- An Imperfect Manifestation Of A Much Better Totality. Even The Best Of Us Sometimes Bite Off, As It Were, Less Than We Can Chew.

Some People', Miss R. Said,'run To Conceits Or Wisdom But I Hold To The Hard, Brown, Nutlike Word. I Might Point Out That There Is Enough Aesthetic Excitement Here To Satisfy Anyone But A Damned Fool.