Hell Is Not To Love Anymore.

All Her Life She [chantal] Had Been Carefully, Heroically Watching Over Mediocre Beings Who Were Hardly Real, Over Things Of No Value.

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.

[p]ride Has No Intrinsic Substance, Being No More Than The Name Given To The Soul Devouring Itself. When That Loathsome Perversion Of Love Has Borne Its Fruit, It Has Another, More Meaningful And Weightier Name. We Call It Hatred.

To Be Able To Share In Another's Joy, That Is The Secret Of Happiness.

When Writing Of Oneself One Should Show No Mercy. Yet Why At The First Attempt To Discover One's Own Truth Does All Inner Strength Seem To Melt Away In Floods Of Self-pity And Tenderness And Rising Tears?