Hell, Madame, Is To Love No Longer.

Our Rages, Daughters Of Despair, Creep And Squirm Like Worms. Prayer Is The Only Form Of Revolt Which Remains Upright.

Only The Present Counts.

I Don't Think We Can Ever Learn Much From Ultra-sensitive, Shifty Faces, Skilled In Disguise, That Hide Themselves In Lust, As Beasts Hide To Die.

If Hell Has No Answer For The Questioning Dead, It Is Not Because It Refuses To Answer (for Rigorous, Alas, In Observance, Is The Imperishable Fire), But It Is Because Hell Has Nothing To Say, Will Say Nothing Eternally.

Optimism Has Always Seemed To Me The Cunning Alibi Of Egoists, Anxious To Cover Up Their State Of Chronic Self-satisfaction. They Are Optimists In Order To Avoid Pitying Other Men And Their Misfortune. ~~ Yet Pity Is A Vexed Question.