The Truth Is Artistically Fallacious.

No, I Most Certainly Do Not Think Advertising People Are Wonderful. I Think They Are Horrible, And The Worst Menace To Mankind, Next To War; Perhaps Ahead Of War. They Stand For The Material Viewpoint, For The Importance Of Possessions, Of Desire, Of Envy, Of Greed. And War Comes From These Things.

You Can't Change A Man, No-ways. By The Time His Mummy Turns Him Loose And He Takes Up With Some Innocent Woman And Marries Her, He's What He Is.

...a Pie So Delicate, So Luscious, That I Hope To Be Propped Up On My Dying Bed And Fed A Generous Portion. Then I Think That I Should Refuse Outright To Die, For Life Would Be Too Good To Relinquish.

To Comfort Any Mortal Against Loneliness, One Other Is Enough.

Men Had Reached Into The Scrub And Along Its Boundaries, Had Snatched What They Could Get And Had Gone Away, Uneasy In That Vast Indifferent Peace; For A Man Was Nothing, Crawling Ant-like Among The Myrtle Bushes Under The Pines. Now They Were Gone, It Was As Though They Had Never Been. The Silence Of The Scrub Was Primordial. The Wood-thrush Crying Across It Might Have Been The First Bird In The World-or The Last.