The World Goes On As Before, And

Of What Does Politics Consist Except The Making Of Imperfect Decisions, Many Of Them Unjust And Quite A Few Of Them Deadly?

We Might Make A Public Moan In The Newspapers About The Decay Of Conscience, But In Private Conversation, No Matter What Crimes A Man May Have Committed Or How Cynically He May Have Debased His Talent Or His Friends, Variations On The Answer Yes, But I Did It For The Money, Satisfy All But The Most Tiresome Objections.

We Need Not Seek Our Own Best Selves, And In The Meantime We Inoculate Ourselves Against The Viruses Of Age And Idealism, Which, As The Advertising Agencies Well Know, Depress Sales And Sour The Feasts Of Consumption.

Democracy Is Born In Dirt, Nourished By The Digging Up And Turning Over As Much Of It As Can Be Brought Within Reach Of A Television Camera Or Subpoena.

Recollections Of Early Childhood Bear Comparison To Fairy Tales, And ... Youth Remains An Unknown Country To Whose Bourn No Traveler Returns Except As The Agent Of A Foreign Power.