All Things Truly Wicked Start From Innocence.

Home Is Where The Heart Is, Home Is Where The Fart Is. Come Let Us Fart In The Home. There Is No Art In A Fart. Still A Fart May Not Be Artless. Let Us Fart And Artless Fart In The Home.

I've Seen A Lot Of Patriots And They All Died Just Like Anybody Else If It Hurt Bad Enough And Once They Were Dead Their Patriotism Was Only Good For Legends; It Was Bad For Their Prose And Made Them Write Bad Poetry. If You Are Going To Be A Great Patriot I.e. Loyal To Any Existing Order Of Government (not One Who Wishes To Destroy The Existing For Something Better) You Want To Be Killed Early If Your Life And Works Won't Stink.

Live The Full Life Of The Mind, Exhilarated By New Ideas, Intoxicated By The Romance Of The Unusual.

When You Go To War As A Boy You Have A Great Illusion Of Immortality. Other People Get Killed; Not You. . . . Then When You Are Badly Wounded The First Time You Lose That Illusion And You Know It Can Happen To You. After Being Severely Wounded Two Weeks Before My Nineteenth Birthday I Had A Bad Time Until I Figured Out That Nothing Could Happen To Me That Had Not Happened To All Men Before Me. Whatever I Had To Do Men Had Always Done. If They Had Done It Then I Could Do It Too And The Best Thing Was Not To Worry About It.

You're An Expatriate. You've Lost Touch With The Soil. You Get Precious. Fake European Standards Have Ruined You. You Drink Yourself To Death. You Become Obsessed By Sex. You Spend All Your Time Talking, Not Working. You Are An Expatriate, See? You Hang Around Cafts.