No One Ever Hates Without A Cause.

What Irritates Me Is The Bland Way People Go Around Saying, 'oh, Our Attitude Has Changed. We Don't Dislike These People Any More.' But By The Strangest Coincidence, They Haven't Taken Away The Injustice; The Laws Are Still On The Books.

The Landscape, Like Los Angeles Itself, Is Transitional. Impermanence Haunts The City, With Its Mushroom Industries--the Aircraft Perpetually Becoming Obsolete, The Oil Which Must One Day Be Exhausted, The Movies Which Fill America's Theatres For Six Months And Are Forgotten. Many Of Its Houses--especially The Grander Ones--have A Curiously Disturbing Atmosphere, A Kind Of Psychological Dankness Which Smells Of Anxiety, Overdrafts, Uneasy Lust, Whisky, Divorce And Lies.

Only Those Who Are Capable Of Silliness Can Be Called Truly Intelligent.

But Your Book Is Wrong, Mrs. Strunk, Says George, When It Tells You That Jim Is The Substitute I Found For A Real Son, A Real Kid Brother, A Real Husband, A Real Wife. Jim Wasn't A Substitute For Anything. And There Is No Substitute For Jim, If You'll Forgive My Saying So, Anywhere.

If It’s Going To Be A World With No Time For Sentiment, It’s Not A World That I Want To Live In.