A Painter Can Hang His Pictures, But

Man Pines To Live But Cannot Endure The Days Of His Life.

Evil, Which Is Our Companion All Our Days, Is Not To Be Treated As A Foe. It Is Wrong To Cocker Vice, But We Grow Narrow And Pithless If We Are Furtive About It, For This Is At Best A Pretense, And The Sage Knows Good And Evil Are Kindred. The Worst Of Men Harm Others, And The Best Injure Themselves.

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.

Perhaps Samuel Johnson Was A Great Man; He Was Certainly A Drumbling One.

What Is Most Appalling In An F. Scott Fitzgerald Book Is That It Is Peopleless Fiction: Fitzgerald Writes About Spectral, Muscledsuits; Dresses, Hats, And Sleeves Which Have Some Sort Of Vague, Libidinous Throb. These Are Plainly The Product Of Sickness.