Every Decision You Make Is A Mistake.

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.

When One Realizes That His Life Is Worthless He Either Commits Suicide Or Travels.

The Machine Has Had A Pernicious Effect Upon Virtue, Pity, And Love, And Young Men Used To Machines Which Induce Inertia, And Fear, Are Near Impotent.

Man Is At The Nadir Of His Stregth When The Earth, The Seas, The Mountains Are Not In Him, For Without Them His Soul Is Unsourced, And He Has No Images By Which To Abide.

Those Who Write For Lucre Or Fame Are Grosser Than The Cartel Robbers, For They Steal The Genius Of The People, Which Is Its Will To Resist Evil.