Books For All The World Are Always

I Despise Mystics, They Fancy Themselves So Deep, When They Aren't Even Superficial.

The Perfect Woman Perpetrates Literature As She Perpetrates A Small Sin: As An Experiment, In Passing, Glancing Around To See Whether Anybody Notices--and To Make Sure That Somebody Notices.

Do Ask Yourself Why You, The Individual, Exist, And If You Can Get No Other Answer Try For Once To Justify The Meaning Of Your Existence As It Were A Posteriori By Setting Before Yourself An Aim, A Goal, A 'to This End', An Exalted And Noble 'to This End'.

The Child As A Monument To The Passion Of Two People; The Will To Oneness In Two.

Triumph Depends On A Roll Of Fate's Dice; The Ultimate Prize Is A Place In Heaven.