If I could live to the end of my century--1938--I am sure I should see the silly bubble explode. A world so different from that of my childhood or middle-life can't belong to the same scheme. It shifts from one motive to another, without sequence...Out of a medieval, primitive, crawling infant of 1838, to find oneself a howling, steaming, marconiing, raduminating, automobiling maniac of 1904 exceeds belief.
No one means all he says, and yet very few say all they mean for words are slippery and thought is viscous.