One Cat In A House Is A

The Americans Have Always Been Food, Sex, And Spirit Revivalists.

There Is A Strange And Mighty Race Of People Called The Americans Who Are Rapidly Becoming The Coldest In The World Because Of This Cruel, Man-eating Idol, Lucre.

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.

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.

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.