Sensuality Is The Death Of The Soul.

The Habits Of Life Form The Soul, And The Soul Forms The Physical Presence.

Many Of Us Marvel At The Icy Insensitivity With Which Women Snuff Out Their Armours. But If They Did Not Blot Out The Past In This Manner, Life For Them Would Lose All Dignity And They Could Never Resist The Fatal Familiarities To Which They Once Submitted.

Only When One Has Learned To Acknowledge That Wiser Minds Have Made Better Words To Come Out Of Our Mouths May We Truly, Then, Begin To Speak Them.

Poets And Men Of Action Differ: The Former Yield To Their Feelings In Order To Reproduce Them In Lively Colors, And Therefore Judge Only Ex Post Facto; The Latter Feel And Judge At One And The Same Time.

Our Souls Possess The Unknown Power Of Extending As Well As Contracting Space.