It Is Not The Opinions Or The

Thread Of Their Days Without Pity, And In The Midst Of Life, Without Ever Concerning Themselves With This Fatal Moment, Living As Though They Were To Exist For Ever, They Disappear Into The Obscure Cloud Of Immortality, Uncertain Of The Fate Which Lies In Store For Them.

One Weeps Not Save When One Is Afraid, And That Is Why Kings Are Tyrants.

The Imagination Is The Spur Of Delights... All Depends Upon It, It Is The Mainspring Of Everything; Now, Is It Not By Means Of The Imagination One Knows Joy? Is It Not Of The Imagination That The Sharpest Pleasures Arise?

There Is No God, Nature Sufficeth Unto Herself; In No Wise Hath She Need Of An Author.

Are Your Convictions So Fragile That Mine Cannot Stand In Opposition To Them? Is Your God So Illusory That The Presence Of My Devil Reveals His Insufficiency?