If he fights he must fight, not one man, but a conspiracy. He is always at war with a civilization. On his side is proverbial philosophy, a galaxy of invisible saints and sages, and the half-developed consciousness and professions of everybody. Against him is the world, and every selfish passion in his own heart. Progress celebrates Pyrrhic victories over nature.
Progress makes purses out of human skin.
When people were traveling in mail coaches, the world got ahead better than it does now that salesmen fly through the air. Nothing recedes like progress. Progress everywhere today does seem to come so very heavily disguised as Chaos. Progress, under whose feet the grass mourns and the forest turns into paper from which newspaper plants grow, has subordinated the purpose of life to the means of subsistence and turned us into the nuts and bolts for our tools. Perhaps the best definition of progress would be the continuing efforts of men and women to narrow the gap between the convenience of the powers that be and the unwritten charter.