Some Sorts Of Truth Are Truer Than

There Are, Broadly Speaking, Two Types Of Drinkers. There Is The Man Whom We All Know, Stupid, Unimaginative, Whose Brain Is Bitten Numbly By Numb Maggots; Who Walks Generously With Wide-spread, Tentative Legs, Falls Frequently In The Gutter, And Who Sees, In The Extremity Of His Ecstasy, Blue Mice And Pink Elephants.... The Other Type Of Drinker Has Imagination, Vision. Even When Most Pleasantly Jingled He Walks Straight And Naturally, Never Staggers Nor Falls, And Knows Just Where He Is And What He Is Doing. It Is Not His Body But His Brain That Is Drunken.

Love Is The Sum Of All The Arts, As It Is The Reason For Their Existence.

The Effect Of Civilization Is To Impose Human Law Upon Environment Until It Becomes Machine-like In Its Regularity. The Objectionable Is Eliminated, The Inevitable Is Foreseen. One Is Not Even Made Wet By The Rain Nor Cold By The Frost; While Death, Instead Of Stalking About Gruesome And Accidental, Becomes A Prearranged Pageant, Moving Along A Well-oiled Groove To The Family Vault, Where The Hinges Are Kept From Rusting And The Dust From The Air Is Swept Continually Away.

Mental Or Spiritual Health, Which Is Rationality, Makes For Progress, And The Future Demands Greater And Greater Mental Or Spiritual Health, Greater And Greater Rationality. The Brain Must Dominate And Direct Both The Individual And Society In The Time To Come, Not The Belly And The Heart.

You Stand On Dead Men's Legs. You've Never Had Any Of Your Own. You Couldn't Walk Alone Between Two Sunrises And Hustle The Meat For Your Belly