Murder Is Born Of Love, And Love

Come Now, Don't Make Such A Funeral Face. It Isn't Dying That's Sad; It's Living When You're Not Happy.

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?

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

Why, Flowers Are Violent, Cruel, Terrible And Splendid... Like Love!

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