When One Tears Away The Veils And

When One Tears Away The Veils And Shows Them Naked, People's Souls Give Off Such A Pungent Smell Of Decay.

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

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

Nothing Comes At All -- Never Anything. And I Cannot Accustom Myself To That. It Is This Monotony, This Absolute Fixity In Life, That Is The Hardest Thing For Me To Endure. I Should Like To Go Away From Here. Go Away? But Where And How? I Do Not Know, And I Stay.

Nature’s Constantly Screaming With All Its Shapes And Scents: Love Each Other! Love Each Other! Do As The Flowers. There’s Only Love.