The Timelessness Of Art Is Its Capacity

One's Worst Enormities Remain Within, And It Is Only One's Vulgar Commonplaces Of Error And Folly That Turn Into Murders And Suicides, Treasons, Infidelities, And Betrayals.

The Cycle Of The Machine Is Now Coming To An End. Man Has Learned Much In The Hard Discipline And The Shrewd, Unflinching Grasp Of Practical Possibilities That The Machine Has Provided In The Last Three Centuries: But We Can No More Continue To Live In The World Of The Machine Than We Could Live Successfully On The Barren Surface Of The Moon.

The Physical Lot Of Surviving Workers Had Notably Improved, With Unemployment Insurance, Social Security, And The New Health Services, While Their Children's School Education Was Assured By The Government-operated Schools: In Addition, They Had, For Intellectual Or Emotional Stimulus And Diversion, The Radio And The Television. But The Work Itself Was No Longer As Various, As Interesting, Or As Sustaining To The Personality.

Adventure Is Humdrum And Routine Unless One Assimilates It, Unless One Relates It To A Central Core Which Grows Within And Gives It Contour And Significance. Raw Experience Is Empty, Just As Empty As The Forecastle Of A Whaler As In A Chamber Of A Counting House; For It Is Not What One Does, But In A Manifold Sense, What One Realizes That Keeps Existence From Being Vain And Trivial.

Moment To Moment, It Turns Out, Is Not God's Conception, Or Nature's. It Is Man Conversing With Himself About And Through A Piece Of Machinery He Created."we Effectively Became "time-keepers, And Then Time-savers, And Now Time-servers" With The Invention Of The Clock."