Life Is The Only Art That We

Safety Razors Make It Hard To Grow Beards In America: America Would Be A Better Place If There Were A Few Bearded, Savage, Terrible Old Men.

In Vulgar Usage, Progress Has Come To Mean Limitless Movement In Space And Time, Accompanied, Necessarily, By An Equally Limitless Command Of Energy: Culminating In Limitless Destruction.

Each Religion Is A Brave Guess At The Authorship Of Hamlet. Yet, As Far As The Play Goes, Does It Make Any Difference Whether Shakespeare Or Bacon Wrote It? Would It Make Any Difference To The Actors If Their Parts Happened Out Of Nothingness, If They Found Themselves Acting On The Stage Because Of Some Gross And Unpardonable Accident? Would It Make Any Difference If The Playwright Gave Them The Lines Or Whether They Composed Them Themselves, So Long As The Lines Were Properly Spoken? Would It Make Any Difference To The Characters If 'a Midsummer Night's Dream' Was Really A Dream?

When Art Seems To Be Empty Of Meaning, As No Doubt Some Of The Abstract Painting Of Our Own Day Actually Does Seem, What The Painting Says, Indeed What The Artist Is Shrieking At The Top Of His Voice, Is That Life Has Become Empty Of All Rational Content And Coherence, And That, In Times Like These, Is Far From A Meaningless Statement.

The Cycle Of The Machine Is Now Coming To An End. Man Has Learned Much In The Hard Discipline And The Shrewd, Unflinching Grasp Of Practical Possibilities That The Machine Has Provided In The Last Three Centuries: But We Can No More Continue To Live In The World Of The Machine Than We Could Live Successfully On The Barren Surface Of The Moon.