Utopias Rest On The Fallacy That Perfection

Chaos, If It Does Not Harden Into A Pattern Of Disorder, May Be More Fruitful Than A Regularity Too Easily Accepted And A Success Too Easily Achieved.

What Was Once Called The Objective World Is A Sort Of Rorschach Ink Blot, Into Which Each Culture, Each System Of Science And Religion, Each Type Of Personality, Reads A Meaning Only Remotely Derived From The Shape And Color Of The Blot Itself

In Its Revolt Against Congestion And Sordor, A Space-hungry Generation Has, I Fear, Developed Eyes That Are Bigger Than Its Stomach.

The Cities And Mansions That People Dream Of Are Those In Which They Finally Live.

A Multitude Of Uniform, Unidentifiable Houses, Lined Up Inflexibly, At Uniform Distances, On Uniform Roads, In A Treeless Communal Waste, Inhabited By People Of The Same Class, The Same Income, The Same Age Group, Witnessing The Same Television Performances, Eating The Same Tasteless Prefabricated Foods, From The Same Freezers, Conforming In Every Outward And Inward Respect To The Common Mold.