Our national flower is the concrete cloverleaf.

Except the American woman, nothing interests the eye of American man more than the automobile, or seems so important to him as an object of esthetic appreciation.

After all, what is a pedestrian? He is a man who has two cars-one being driven by his wife, the other by one of his children.

The automobile has not merely taken over the street, it has dissolved the living tissue of the city. Its appetite for space is absolutely insatiable; moving and parked, it devours urban land, leaving the buildings as mere islands of habitable space in a sea of dangerous and ugly traffic.

To George F. Babbitt, as to most prosperous citizens of Zenith, his motor car was poetry and tragedy, love and heroism. The office was his pirate ship but the car his perilous excursion ashore.

Driving a car, you are in danger of killing; walking or standing, of being killed.

The car has become a secular sanctuary for the individual, his shrine to the self, his mobile Walden Pond.

The car has become an article of dress without which we feel uncertain, unclad, and incomplete.

People on horses look better than they are. People in cars look worse than they are.

Beneath this slab John Brown is stowed. He watched the ads, And not the road.