It Was The Masterful And Incommunicable Wisdom

Socialism, When The Last Word Is Said, Is Merely A New Economic And Political System Whereby More Men Can Get Food To Eat.

Bog-lights, Vapors Of Mysticism, Psychic Overtones, Soul Orgies, Wailings Among The Shadows, Weird Gnosticisms, Veils And Tissues Of Words, Gibbering Subjectivisms, Gropings And Maunderings, Ontological Fantasies ... This Is The Stuff, The Phantasms Of Hope, That Fills Your Book Shelves. Look At Them, All The Sad Wraiths Of Sad Mad Men And Passionate Rebels — Your Schopenhauers, Your Strindbergs, Your Tolstois And Nietzsches. Come. Your Glass Is Empty. Fill And Forget.

I Am First Of All A White Man, And Only Then A Socialist.

Ever Bike? Now That's Something That Makes Life Worth Living!... Oh, To Just Grip Your Handlebars And Lay Down To It, And Go Ripping And Tearing Through Streets And Road, Over Railroad Tracks And Bridges, Threading Crowds, Avoiding Collisions, At Twenty Miles Or More An Hour, And Wondering All The Time When You're Going To Smash Up. Well, Now, That's Something! And Then Go Home Again After Three Hours Of It... And Then To Think That Tomorrow I Can Do It All Over Again!

He Was Mastered By The Sheer Surging Of Life, The Tidal Wave Of Being, The Perfect Joy Of Each Separate Muscle, Joint, And Sinew In That It Was Everything That Was Not Death, That It Was Aglow And Rampant, Expressing Itself In Movement, Flying Exultantly Under The Stars.