It seems to be a law in American life that whatever enriches us anywhere except in the wallet inevitably becomes uneconomic.
The goal of all inanimate objects is to resist man and ultimately defeat him.
Happiness is a small and unworthy goal for something as big and fancy as a whole lifetime, and should be taken in small doses.
Life is always walking up to us and saying, Come on in, the living's find, and what do we do? Back off and take its picture.
So there he is at last. Man on the moon. The poor magnificent bungler! He can't even get to the office without undergoing the agonies of the damned, but give him a little metal, a few chemicals, some wire and twenty or thirty billion dollars and, vroom! there he is, up on a rock a quarter of a million miles up in the sky.
Inanimate objects are classified scientifically into three major categories -- those that don't work, those that break down and those that get lost.
In America nothing dies easier than tradition.