Happiness, I Think, Lies On The Surface...

The City Is A Fact In Nature, Like A Cave, A Run Of Mackerel Or An Ant-heap. But It Is Also A Conscious Work Of Art, And It Holds Within Its Communal Framework Many Simpler And More Personal Forms Of Art. Mind Takes Form In The City; And In Turn, Urban Forms Condition Mind.

Sport In The Sense Of A Mass-spectacle, With Death To Add To The Underlying Excitement, Comes Into Existence When A Population Has Been Drilled And Regimented And Depressed To Such An Extent That It Needs At Least A Vicarious Participation In Difficult Feats Of Strength Or Skill Or Heroism In Order To Sustain Its Waning Life-sense.

Neither Democracy Nor Effective Representation Is Possible Until Each Participant In The Group...devotes A Measurable Part Of His Life To Furthering Its Existence.

However Far Modern Science And Techniques Have Fallen Short Of Their Inherent Possibilities, They Have Taught Mankind At Least One Lesson; Nothing Is Impossible.

To Curb The Machine And Limit Art To Handicraft Is A Denial Of Opportunity.