In Order To Get The Worst Possible

The Talk Of Pale, Burning-eyed Students, Anarchists And Utopians All, Over Tea And Cigarettes In A Locked Room Long Past Midnight, Is Next Morning Translated, With The Literalness Of Utter Innocence, Into The Throwing Of The Bomb, The Shouting Of The Proud Slogan, The Dragging Away Of The Young Dreamer-doer, Still Smiling, To The Dungeon And The Firing Squad.

I Am A Camera, With Its Shutter Open. Someday, All Of This Will Be Developed, Printed, Fixed.

California Is A Tragic Country — Like Palestine, Like Every Promised Land. Its Short History Is A Fever-chart Of Migrations — The Land Rush, The Gold Rush, The Oil Rush, The Movie Rush, The Okie Fruit-picking Rush, The Wartime Rush To The Aircraft Factories — Followed, In Each Instance, By Counter-migrations Of The Disappointed And Unsuccessful, Moving Sorrowfully Homeward.

Horror Is Always Aware Of Its Cause; Terror Never Is. That Is Precisely What Makes Terror Terrifying.

These Books Have Not Made George Nobler Or Better Or More Truly Wise. It Is Just That He Likes Listening To Their Voices, The One Or The Other, Acording To His Mood. He Misuses Them Quite Ruthlessly - Despite The Respectful Way He Has To Talk About Them In Public - To Put Him To Bed, To Take His Mind Off The Hands Of The Clock, To Relax The Nagging Of His Pyloric Spasm, To Gossip Him Out Of His Melancholy, To Trigger The Conditioned Reflexes Of His Colon.