People Do Not Choose A Career; The

Women Is Fine Once You Got Em Pinned Down, Boss, But When They Ain't Pinned Down They're Hell.

I Think We Are All Of Us A Pretty Milky Lot, Without Tea-table Convictions And Our Radicalism That Keeps So Consistently Within The Bounds Of Decorum . . . .i'd Like To Annihilate These Stupid Colleges Of Ours . . . Instillers Of Stodginess.

Experiments In The Visual Arts (the Invention Of New Ways Of Seeing Things), Are Made Because, Due To The Way The Apparatus That Makes Up The Mind Is Made, Old Processes And Patterns Have Continually To Be Broken Up In Order To Make It Possible To Perceive The New Aspects And Arrangements Of Evolving Consciousness. The Great Enemy Of Intelligence Is Complacency.

Why Won't They Let A Year Die Without Bringing In A New One On The Instant, Can't They Use Birth Control On Time? I Want An Interregnum. The Stupid Years Patter On With Unrelenting Feet, Never Stopping - Rising To Little Monotonous Peaks In Our Imaginations At Festivals Like New Year's And Easter And Christmas - But, Goodness, Why Need They Do It?

A Novel Is A Commodity That Fulfills A Certain Need; People Need To Buy Daydreams Like They Need To Buy Ice Cream Or Aspirin Or Gin. They Even Need To Buy A Pinch Of Intellectual Catnip Now And Then To Liven Up Their Thoughts.