A man who can be entertaining for a full day will be in his grave by night-fall.
Man hoards himself when he has nothing to give away.
One of the weaknesses in the cooperative is that it has never been sufficiently leavened by the imagination. This is a quick-silver faculty, and likely to be a cause of worry to any collective settlement.
Man is at the nadir of his stregth when the Earth, the seas, the mountains are not in him, for without them his soul is unsourced, and he has no images by which to abide.
It is hideous and coarse to assume that we can do something for others-and it is vile not to endeavor to do it.
Everything ultimately fails, for we die, and that is either the penultimate failure or our most enigmatical achievement.
Herman Melville was as separated from a civilized literature as the lost Atlantis was said to have been from the great peoples of the earth.
A strong foe is better than a weak friend.
We are a most solitary people, and we live, repelled by one another, in the gray, outcast cities of Cain.
What is most appalling in an F. Scott Fitzgerald book is that it is peopleless fiction: Fitzgerald writes about spectral, muscledsuits; dresses, hats, and sleeves which have some sort of vague, libidinous throb. These are plainly the product of sickness.
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