Scratch A Socialist And You Find A

In Violence, We Forget Who We Are

The Furniture And Trappings In The Apartment Are All In A State Of Flux - Here Today, Gone Tomorrow. Nothing Is Anchored To Its Place, Not Even The Coffee-pot, Which Floats Off And Returns, On The Tide Of The Signora's Marine Nature.

I Suppose Everyone Continues To Be Interested In The Quest For The Self, But What You Feel When You're Older, I Think, Is That ... You Really Must Make The Self. It Is Absolutely Useless To Look For It, You Won't Find It, But It's Possible In Some Sense To Make It. I Don't Mean In The Sense Of Making A Mask, A Yeatsian Mask. But You Finally Begin In Some Sense To Make And Choose The Self You Want.

Who Are The Advertising Men Kidding, Besides The European Tourist? Between The Tired, Sad, Gentle Faces Of The Subway Riders And The Grinning Holy Families Of The Ad-mass, There Exists No Possibility Of Even A Wishful Identification.

The Dictator Is Also The Scapegoat; In Assuming Absolute Authority, He Assumes Absolute Guilt; And The Oppressed Masses, Groaning Under The Yoke, Know Themselves To Be Innocent As Lambs, While They Pray Hypocritically For Deliverance.