Murder Is Born Of Love, And Love

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

Great Ladies ... Are Like The Best Sauces -- It Is Better Not To Know How They Are Made.

As Soon As I Find Myself In The Presence Of A Rich Man, I Cannot Help Looking Upon Him As An Exceptional And Beautiful Being, As A Sort Of Marvellous Divinity, And, In Spite Of Myself, Surmounting My Will And My Reason, I Feel Rising, From The Depths Of My Being, Toward This Rich Man, Who Is Very Often An Imbecile, And Sometimes A Murderer, Something Like An Incense Of Admiration. Is It Not Stupid? And Why? Why?

You're Obliged To Pretend Respect For People And Institutions You Think Absurd. You Live Attached In A Cowardly Fashion To Moral And Social Conventions You Despise, Condemn, And Know Lack All Foundation.

Wherever He Goes, Whatever He Does, He Will Always See That Word: Murder—immortally Inscribed Upon The Pediment Of That Vast Slaughterhouse—humanity.