War Is The Supreme Drama Of A

A Day Spent Without The Sight Or Sound Of Beauty, The Contemplation Of Mystery, Or The Search Of Truth Or Perfection Is A Poverty-stricken Day; And A Succession Of Such Days Is Fatal To Human Life.

He Who Touches The Soil Of Manhattan And The Pavement Of New York, Touches, Whenever He Knows Or Not, Walt Whitman.

Today, The Degradation Of The Inner Life Is Symbolized By The Fact That The Only Place Sacred From Interruption Is The Private Toilet.

The Mind Reproduces Itself By Transmitting Its Symbols To Other Intermediaries, Human And Mechanical, Than The Particular Brain That First Assembled Them.

War Is Both The Product Of An Earlier Corruption, And A Producer Of New Corruptions.