His enemy was time. Or perhaps it was his friend. One never knows for sure.
They belonged to that futile, desolate, and forsaken horde who felt that all will be well with their lives, that all the power they lack themselves will be supplied, and all the anguish, fury, and unrest, the confusion and the dark damnation of man's soul can magically be healed if only they eat bran for breakfast.
America - it is a fabulous country, the only fabulous country; it is the only place where miracles not only happen, but where they happen all the time. Culture is the arts elevated to a set of beliefs.
To a future world,— inhabited, no doubt, by a less acute and understanding race of men,— all this may seem a trifle strange. If so, that will be because the world of the future will have forgotten what it was like to live in 1929.