A Woman Who Thinks She Is Intelligent

Among All The Modernized Aspects Of The Most Luxurious Of Industries, The Model, A Vestige Of Voluptuous Barbarianism, Is Like Some Plunder-laden Prey. She Is The Object Of Unbridled Regard, A Living Bait, The Passive Realization Of An Ideal. No Other Female Occupation Contains Such Potent Impulses To Moral Disintegration As This One, Applying As It Does The Outward Signs Of Riches To A Poor And Beautiful Girl.

I Want Nothing From Love, In Short, But Love.

My True Friends Have Always Given Me That Supreme Proof Of Devotion, A Spontaneous Aversion For The Man I Loved.

Perhaps The Only Misplaced Curiosity Is That Which Persists In Trying To Find Out Here, On This Side Of Death, What Lies Beyond The Grave.

Is Suffering So Very Serious? ...i'm Referring To The Kind Of Suffering A Man Inflicts On A Woman Or A Woman On A Man. It's Extremely Painful... Hardly Bearable. But I Very Much Fear That This Sort Of Pain... Is No More Worthy Of Respect Than Old Age Or Illness.