pity this busy monster, manunkind'pity this busy monster, manunkind, not. Progress is a comfortable disease: your victim (death and life safely beyond)plays with the bigness of his littleness--- electrons deify one razorbladeinto a mountainrange; lenses extendunwish through curving wherewhen till unwishreturns on its unself. A world of madeis not a world of born --- pity poor fleshand trees, poor stars and stones, but never thisfine specimen of hypermagicalultraomnipotence. We doctors knowa hopeless case if --- listen: there's a hellof a good universe next door; let's go
E. E. CummingsAbout author
- Author's profession: Poet
- Nationality: american
- Born: October 14, 1894
- Died: September 3, 1962
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We walked at night towards a cafe blooming with Japanese lanterns and I followed your white shoes gleaming like radium in the damp darkness. Rising off the water, lights flickered an invitation far enough away to be interpreted as we liked; to shimmer glamourously behind the silhouette of retrospective good times when we still believed in summer hotels and the philosophies of popular songs.
Zelda Fitzgerald