Narcissus Never Wrote Well Nor Was A

Hardly A Book Of Human Worth, Be It Heaven's Own Secret, Is Honestly Placed Before The Reader; It Is Either Shunned, Given A Periclean Funeral Oration In A Hundred And Fifty Words, Or Interred In The Potter's Field Of The Newspapers Back Pages.

The Ruin Of The Human Heart Is Self-interest, Which The American Merchant Calls Self-service. We Have Become A Self-service Populace, And All Our Specious Comforts -the Automatic Elevator, The Escalator, The Cafeteria -are Depriving Us Of Volition And Moral And Physical Energy.

We Are Always Talking About Being Together, And Yet Whatever We Invent Destroys The Family, And Makes Us Wild, Touchless Beasts Feeding On Technicolor Prairies And Rivers.

The Majority Of Persons Choose Their Wives With As Little Prudence As They Eat. They See A Troll With Nothing Else To Recommend Her But A Pair Of Thighs And Choice Hunkers, And So Smart To Void Their Seed That They Marry Her At Once. They Imagine They Can Live In Marvelous Contentment With Handsome Feet And Ambrosial Buttocks. Most Men Are Accredited Fools Shortly After They Leave The Womb.

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.