Three Years Ago, The White Hope Of

Chicago Is A Sort Of Journalistic Yellowstone Park, Offering Haven To A Last Herd Of Fantastic Bravos.

That God Has Managed To Survive The Inanities Of The Religions That Do Him Homage Is Truly A Miraculous Proof Of His Existence.

Out Of The Thousand Writers Huffing And Puffing Through Movieland There Are Scarcely Fifty Men And Women Of Wit Or Talent. The Rest Of The Fraternity Is Deadwood. Yet, In A Curious Way, There Is Not Much Difference Between The Product Of A Good Writer And A Bad One. They Both Have To Toe The Same Mark.

Prejudice Is A Raft Onto Which The Shipwrecked Mind Clambers And Paddles To Safety.

In Moderating, Not Satisfying Desires, Lies Peace.