The Bad Poet Is A Toady Mimicking

The Ruin Of The Human Heart Is Self-interest, Which The American Merchant Calls Self-service. We Have Become A Self-service Populace, And All Our Specious Comforts -the Automatic Elevator, The Escalator, The Cafeteria -are Depriving Us Of Volition And Moral And Physical Energy.

Man Is At The Nadir Of His Stregth When The Earth, The Seas, The Mountains Are Not In Him, For Without Them His Soul Is Unsourced, And He Has No Images By Which To Abide.

It Is Very Perplexing How An Intrepid Frontier People, Who Fought A Wilderness, Floods, Tornadoes, And The Rockies, Cower Before Criticism, Which Is Regarded As A Malignant Tumor In The Imagination.

We Are Ruled By Chance But Never Have Enough Patience To Accept Its Despotism.

A Painter Can Hang His Pictures, But A Writer Can Only Hang Himself.