If The Path Be Beautiful, Let Us

God, Conquered, Will Become Satan; Satan, Conquering, Will Become God. May The Fates Spare Me This Terrible Lot; I Love The Hell Which Formed My Genius. I Love The Earth Where I Have Done Some Good, If It Be Possible To Do Any Good In This Fearful World Where Beings Live But By Rapine.

There Are No Bad Books Any More Than There Are Ugly Women.

It Is By Believing In Roses That You Make Them Bloom.

Distrust Even Mathematics; Albeit So Sublime And Highly Perfected, We Have Here A Machine Of Such Delicacy It Can Only Work In Vacuo, And One Grain Of Sand In The Wheels Is Enough To Put Everything Out Of Gear. One Shudders To Think To What Disaster Such A Grain Of Sand May Bring A Mathematical Brain. Remember Pascal.

I Ought Not To Fear To Survive My Own People So Long As There Are Men In The World; For There Are Always Some Whom One Can Love.