Sex Is A Slotmachine.

I Think The Satirist Is Always Basically Optimistic. The Satirist's Complaint About Society Is Always That It Doesn't Measure Up To A Fairly High Ideal He Has. I Think That Even The Bitterest Satirist, Even A Man Like Swift, Was Probably Rather An Optimist At Heart.

Git An Eyeful Of Cesspool Alley The Land Of Opportunity.

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?

It Was The Ponderous Battering Ram Of His Novels That Opened The Way Through The Genteel Reticences Of American Nineteenth-century Fiction. . . Without [theodore] Dreiser's Treading Out A Path For Naturalism None Of Us Would Have Had A Chance To Publish.

It's Rather Grisly, Isnt It, How Soon A Living Man Becomes Nothing More Than A Collection Of Stocks And Bonds And Debts And Real Estate?