I Do Not Know What I Think

The Novelties Of One Generation Are Only The Resuscitated Fashions Of The Generation Before Last.

While We Ourselves Are The Living Graves Of Murdered Animals, How Can We Expect Any Ideal Living Conditions On This Earth?

Christmas Is Forced Upon A Reluctant And Disgusted Nation By The Shopkeepers And The Press; On Its Own Merits It Would Wither And Shrivel In The Fiery Breath Of Universal Hatred.

This Souls'prison We Call England.

I Appeal To The Chemists To Discover A Humane Gas That Will Kill Instantly And Painlessly. In Short- A Gentlemanly Gas Deadly By All Means, But Humane, Not Cruel.