As Many As Six Out Of Ten

I Never Can Pass By The Metropolitan Museum Of Art In New York Without Thinking Of It Not As A Gallery Of Living Portraits But As A Cemetery Of Tax-deductible Wealth.

Nobody Suffers The Pain Of Birth Or The Anguish Of Loving A Child In Order For Presidents To Make Wars, For Governments To Feed On The Substance Of Their People, For Insurance Companies To Cheat The Young And Rob The Old.

The Supply Of Government Exceeds Demand.

It Is No Accident That Banks Resemble Temples, Preferably Greek, And That The Supplicants Who Come To Perform The Rites Of Deposit And Withdrawal Instinctively Lower Their Voices Into The Registers Of Awe. Even The Most Junior Tellers Acquire Within Weeks Of Their Employment The Officiousness Of Hierophants Tending An Eternal Flame.

Let The Rabbit Of Free Enterprise Out Of Its Velveteen Bag And Too Many People Would Have To Be Fired, Too Much Idiocy Exposed To The Light Of Judgment Or Ridicule, Too Much Vanity Sacrificed To The Fires Of Efficiency. Such A Catastrophe Obviously Would Threaten The American Way Of Life, To Say Nothing Of The Belief In Free Markets.