Glory Is The Sunshine Of The Dead

The Innocence Of Virgins Is Like Milk Which Turns When Exposed To A Clap Of Thunder, To A Tart Smell, To A Hot Day, To The Merest Nothing.

No Woman Allows Her Lover To Descend From His Pedestal. Even A God Is Not Forgiven The Slightest Pettiness.

A Beautiful Book Is A Victory Won In All The Battlefields Of Human Thought.

Woman Is A Delightful Instrument Of Pleasure, But It Is Necessary To Know Its Trembling Strings, To Study The Position Of Them, The Timid Keyboard, The Fingering So Changeful And Capricious Which Befits It.

A Woman In The Depths Of Despair Proves So Persuasive That She Wrenches The Forgiveness Lurking Deep In The Heart Of Her Lover. This Is All The More True When That Woman Is Young, Pretty, And So Decollete As To Emerge From The Neck Of Her Gown In The Costume Of Eve.