Nature’s Constantly Screaming With All Its Shapes

The Poor Are The Human Manure In Which Grow The Harvests Of Life, The Harvests Of Joy Which The Rich Reap.

As Soon As I Find Myself In The Presence Of A Rich Man, I Cannot Help Looking Upon Him As An Exceptional And Beautiful Being, As A Sort Of Marvellous Divinity, And, In Spite Of Myself, Surmounting My Will And My Reason, I Feel Rising, From The Depths Of My Being, Toward This Rich Man, Who Is Very Often An Imbecile, And Sometimes A Murderer, Something Like An Incense Of Admiration. Is It Not Stupid? And Why? Why?

There Is A Diabolical Streak In Me, A Troublesome And Inexplicable Perversity.

You're Obliged To Pretend Respect For People And Institutions You Think Absurd. You Live Attached In A Cowardly Fashion To Moral And Social Conventions You Despise, Condemn, And Know Lack All Foundation.

Sheep Run To The Slaughterhouse, Silent And Hopeless, But At Least Sheep Never Vote For The Butcher Who Kills Them Or The People Who Devour Them. More Beastly Than Any Beast, More Sheepish Than Any Sheep, The Voter Names His Own Executioner And Chooses His Own Devourer, And For This Precious "right" A Revolution Was Fought.