A book lying idle on a shelf is wasted ammunition.
Every day that we fail to live out the maximum of our potentialities we kill the Shakespeare, Dante, Homer, Christ which is in us.
In Europe one gets used to doing nothing. You sit on your ass and whine all day. You get contaminated. You rot.
Directly across the street the Ciné Combat offers its distinguished clientele Metropolis.
He is trying to recapture his innocence, yet all he succeeds in doing (by writing) is to inoculate the world with a virus of his disillusionment.
When you know what men are capable of you marvel neither at their sublimity nor their baseness. There are no limits in either direction apparently.