You Love Only Those Who Deserve It.

What You Think Is An Illusion Created By Your Glands, Your Emotions And, In The Last Analysis, By The Content Of Your Stomach. That Gray Matter You're So Proud Of Is Like A Mirror In An Amusement Park Which Transmits To You Nothing But Distorted Signals From Reality Forever Beyond Your Grasp.

If You Tell An Ugly Woman That She Is Beautiful, You Offer Her The Great Homage Of Corrupting The Concept Of Beauty.

Independence Is The Recognition Of The Fact That Yours Is The Responsibility Of Judgment And Nothing Can Help You Escape It-that No Substitute Can Do Your Thinking, As No Pinch-hitter Can Live Your Life-that The Vilest Form Of Self-abasement And Self-destruction Is The Subordination Of Your Mind To The Mind Of Another, The Acceptance Of An Authority Over Your Brain, The Acceptance Of His Assertions As Facts, His Say-so As Truth, His Edicts As Middle-man Between Your Consciousness And Your Existence.

She Smiled. She Knew She Was Dying. But It Did Not Matter Any Longer. She Had Known Something Which No Human Words Could Ever Tell And She Knew It Now. She Had Been Awaiting It And She Felt It, As If It Had Been, As If She Had Lived It. Life Had Been, If Only Because She Had Known It Could Be, And She Felt It Now As A Hymn Without Sound, Deep Under The Little Whole That Dripped Red Drops Into The Snow, Deeper Than That From Which The Red Drops Came. A Moment Or An Eternity- Did It Matter? Life, Undefeated, Existed And Could Exist. She Smiled, Her Last Smile, To So Much That Had Been Possible.

A Morality That Holds Need As A Claim, Holds Emptiness-non-existence-as Its Standard Of Value; It Rewards An Absence, A Defect: Weakness, Inability, Incompetence, Suffering, Disease, Disaster, The Lack, The Fault, The Flaw-the Zero.