They Use Everything About The

The Proletarian Writer Is A Writer With A Purpose; He Thinks No More Of Art For Art's Sake Than A Man On A Sinking Ship Thinks Of Painting A Beautiful Picture In The Cabin; He Thinks Of Getting Ashore - And Then There Will Be Time Enough For Art.

Into This Wild-beast Tangle These Men Had Been Born Without Their Consent, They Had Taken Part In It Because They Could Not Help It; That They Were In Jail Was No Disgrace To Them, For The Game Had Never Been Fair, The Dice Were Loaded. They Were Swindlers And Thieves Of Pennies And Dimes, And They Had Been Trapped And Put Out Of The Way By The Swindlers And Thieves Of Millions Of Dollars.

It Was Cold And Clammy In The Stone Cell; They Called It The "cooler," And Used It To Reduce The Temperature Of The Violent And Intractable. It Was A Trouble-saving Device; They Just Left The Man There And Forgot Him, And His Own Tormented Mind Did The Rest.

It Is Difficult To Get A Man To Understand Something When His Salary Depends Upon His Not Understanding It.

But I Have A Conscience And A Religious Faith, And I Know That Our Liberties Were Not Won Without Suffering, And May Be Lost Again Through Our Cowardice. I Intend To Do My Duty To My Country.