In An Age That Is Utterly Corrupt,

Dread Not Infanticide; The Crime Is Imaginary: We Are Always Mistress Of What We Carry In Our Womb, And We Do No More Harm In Destroying This Kind Of Matter Than In Evacuating Another, By Medicines, When We Feel The Need.

Miserable Creatures, Thrown For A Moment On The Surface Of This Little Pile Of Mud, Is It Decreed That One Half Of The Flock Should Be The Persecutor Of The Other? Is It For You, Mankind, To Pronounce On What Is Good And What Is Evil?

Here Am I: At One Stroke Incestuous, Adulteress, Sodomite, And All That In A Girl Who Only Lost Her Maidenhead Today! What Progress, My Friends With What Rapidity I Advance Along The Thorny Road Of Vice!

Prejudice Is The Sole Author Of Infamies: How Many Acts Are So Qualified By An Opinion Forged Out Of Naught But Prejudice!

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.