Those Who Write For Lucre

There Are Men That Are Birds, And Their Raiment Is Trembling Feathers, For They Show Their Souls To Everyone And Everything That Is Ungentle Or Untutored Or Evil Or Mockery Is As A Rude Stone Cast At Them, And They Suffer All Day Long, Or As Paul Remarks They Are Slain Every Moment.

Everything Ultimately Fails, For We Die, And That Is Either The Penultimate Failure Or Our Most Enigmatical Achievement.

No People Require Maxims So Much As The American. The Reason Is Obvious: The Country Is So Vast, The People Always Going Somewhere, From Oregon Apple Valley To Boreal New England, That We Do Not Know Whether To Be Temperate Orchards Or Sterile Climate.

There Is A Strange And Mighty Race Of People Called The Americans Who Are Rapidly Becoming The Coldest In The World Because Of This Cruel, Man-eating Idol, Lucre.

Men Are Too Unstable To Be Just; They Are Crabbed Because They Have Not Passed Water At The Usual Time, Or Testy Because They Have Not Been Stroked Or Praised.