What I Really Do Is

... It Was Religion That Saved Me. Our Ugly Church And Parochial School Provided Me With My Only Aesthetic Outlet, In The Words Ofthe Mass And The Litanies And The Old Latin Hymns, In The Easter Lilies Around The Altar, Rosaries, Ornamented Prayer Books, Votive Lamps, Holy Cards Stamped In Gold And Decorated With Flower Wreaths And A Saint's Picture.

America Is Indeed A Revelation, Though Not Quite The One That Was Planned. Given A Clean Slate, Man, It Was Hoped, Would Write The Future. Instead, He Has Written His Past.

Who Are The Advertising Men Kidding, Besides The European Tourist? Between The Tired, Sad, Gentle Faces Of The Subway Riders And The Grinning Holy Families Of The Ad-mass, There Exists No Possibility Of Even A Wishful Identification.

Labor Is Work That Leaves No Trace Behind It When It Is Finished, Or If It Does, As In The Case Of The Tilled Field, This Product Of Human Activity Requires Still More Labor, Incessant, Tireless Labor, To Maintain Its Identity As A 'work' Of Man.

To Be Disesteemed By People You Don't Have Much Respect For Is Not The Worst Fate.