Doubtless There Are Other Roads.

Half Of Tradition Is A Lie.

Perhaps An Individual Must Consider His Own Death To Be The Final Phenomenon Of Nature.

The Man Had Arrived At That Stage Of Drunkenness Where Affection Is Felt For The Universe.

Such An Assemblage Of The Spraddle-legged Men Of The Middle Class, Whose Hands Were Bent And Shoulders Stooped From Delving And Constructing, Had Never Appeared To An Asbury Park Summer Crowd, And The Latter Was Vaguely Amused.

Truth ... Is A Breath, A Wind, A Shadow, A Phantom; Long Have I Pursued It, But Never Have I Touched The Hem Of Its Garment.