Hell Is Not To Love Anymore.

Money-crimes Have An Abstract Quality. History Is Laden With The Victims Of Gold, But Their Remains Are Odourless.

Justice In The Hands Of The Powerful Is Merely A Governing System Like Any Other. Why Call It Justice?

Chantal's Only Ruse ... Was Her Shattering Simplicity. While A Weak Man Or An Imposter Is Always More Complicated Than The Problem He Is Trying To Solve, And Thinking To Encompass His Adversary, Merely Keeps Prowling Interminably Around Himself, The Heroic Nature Will Throw Itself Into The Heart Of The Danger To Turn It To Its Own Use, Just As Captured Artillery Is Turned About And Aimed At The Backs Of The Fleeing Enemy.

[p]ride Has No Intrinsic Substance, Being No More Than The Name Given To The Soul Devouring Itself. When That Loathsome Perversion Of Love Has Borne Its Fruit, It Has Another, More Meaningful And Weightier Name. We Call It Hatred.

What Does The Truth Matter? Haven't We Mothers All Given Our Sons A Taste For Lies, Lies Which From The Cradle Upwards Lull Them, Reassure Them, Send Them To Sleep: Lies As Soft And Warm As A Breast!