The Great Fault In Women Is To

In The Works Of Man, Everything Is As Poor As Its Author; Vision Is Confined, Means Are Limited, Scope Is Restricted, Movements Are Labored, And Results Are Humdrum.

Genius Does Not Seem To Derive Any Great Support From Syllogisms. Its Carriage Is Free; Its Manner Has A Touch Of Inspiration. We See It Come, But We Never See It Walk.

The Whole Earth, Perpetually Steeped In Blood, Is Nothing But An Immense Altar On Which Every Living Thing Must Be Sacrificed Without End, Without Restraint, Without Respite Until The Consummation Of The World, The Extinction Of Evil, The Death Of Death.

Wherever An Altar Is Found, There Civilization Exists.

In A Democracy People Get The Leaders They Deserve.