Sex Is A Slotmachine.

The Only Excuse For A Novelist, Aside From The Entertainment And Vicarious Living His Books Give The People Who Read Them, Is As A Sort Of Second-class Historian Of The Age He Lives In. The "reality" He Missed By Writing About Imaginary People, He Gains By Being Able To Build A Reality More Nearly Out Of His Own Factual Experience Than A Plain Historian Or Biographer Can.

Sex Is A Slotmachine.

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?

Time Has An Undertaking Establishment On Every Block And Drives His Coffin Nails Faster Than The Steam Riveters Rivet Or The Stenographers Type Or The Tickers Tick Out Fours And Eights And Dollar Signs And Ciphers.

Humanity Has A Strange Fondness For Following Processions. Get Four Men Following A Banner Down The Street, And, If That Banner Is Inscribed With Rhymes Of Pleasant Optimism, In An Hour, All The Town Will Be Afoot, Ready To March To Whatever Tune The Leaders Care To Play.