Hypocrite Reader My Fellow My Brother!

Blessed Art Thou, Lord, Who Giveth Suffering As A Divine Remedy For Our Impurities.

The Poet Is Like The Prince Of The Clouds, Who Haunts The Tempest And Laughs At The Archer. Exiled On The Ground In The Midst Of The Jeering Crowd, His Giant's Wings Keep Him From Walking.

What Is Exhilarating In Bad Taste Is The Aristocratic Pleasure Of Giving Offense.

The Unique And Supreme Voluptuousness Of Love Lies In The Certainty Of Committing Evil. And Men And Women Know From Birth That In Evil Is Found All Sensual Delight.

Life Has But One True Charm: The Charm Of The Game. But What If We’re Indifferent To Whether We Win Or Lose?