There Is No Grace: There Is No

To Me A Book Is A Message From The Gods To Mankind; Or, If Not, Should Never Be Published At All. A Message From The Gods Should Be Delivered At Once. It Is Damnably Blasphemous To Talk About The Autumn Season And So On. How Dare The Author Or Publisher Demand A Price For Doing His Duty, The Highest And Most Honorable To Which A Man Can Be Called?

I Slept With Faith And Found A Corpse In My Arms On Awakening; I Drank And Danced All Night With Doubt And Found Her A Virgin In The Morning.

I Cling Unto The Burning Æthyr Like Lucifer That Fell Through The Abyss, And By The Fury Of His Flight Kindled The Air. And I Am Belial, For Having Seen The Rose Upon Thy Breast, I Have Denied God. And I Am Satan! I Am Satan! I Am Cast Out Upon A Burning Crag! And The Sea Boils About The Desolation Thereof. And Already The Vultures Gather, And Feast Upon My Flesh.

Here Again, There Is No Tabulation; For Us It Is Left To Sacrifice Literary Charm, And Even Some Accuracy, In Order To Bring Out The One Great Point. The Cause Of Human Sectarianism Is Not Lack Of Sympathy In Thought, But In Speech; And This It Is Our Not Unambitious Design To Remedy.

Man Has The Right . . . To Play As He Will . . . To Think What He Will: To Speak What He Will: To Write What He Will: To Draw, Paint, Carve, Etch, Mould, Build As He Will: To Dress As He Will.