And If I Were A Naughty Little

If Nature Denies Eternity To Beings, It Follows That Their Destruction Is One Of Her Laws. Now, Once We Observe That Destruction Is So Useful To Her That She Absolutely Cannot Dispense With It From This Moment Onward The Idea Of Annihilation Which We Attach To Death Ceases To Be Real What We Call The End Of The Living Animal Is No Longer A True Finish, But A Simple Transformation, A Transmutation Of Matter. According To These Irrefutable Principles, Death Is Hence No More Than A Change Of Form, An Imperceptible Passage From One Existence Into Another.

How Delightful Are The Pleasures Of The Imagination! In Those Delectable Moments, The Whole World Is Ours; Not A Single Creature Resists Us, We Devastate The World, We Repopulate It With New Objects Which, In Turn, We Immolate. The Means To Every Crime Is Ours, And We Employ Them All, We Multiply The Horror A Hundredfold.

There Are Thorns Everywhere, But Along The Path Of Vice, Roses Bloom Above Them.

Beauty Belongs To The Sphere Of The Simple, The Ordinary, Whilst Ugliness Is Something Extraordinary, And There Is No Question But That Every Ardent Imagination Prefers In Lubricity, The Extraordinary To The Commonplace

So Long As The Laws Remain Such As They Are Today, Employ Some Discretion: Loud Opinion Forces Us To Do So; But In Privacy And Silence Let Us Compensate Ourselves For That Cruel Chastity We Are Obliged To Display In Public.