We Love Women In Proportion To Their

Everything For Me Becomes Allegory

What I Say Is That The Supreme And Singular Joy Of Making Love Resides In The Certainty Of Doing Evil.

Woman Is Natural, That Is To Say, Abominable.

The Form Of A Town Changes More Swiftly Alas! Than The Heart Of A Mortal.

The Devil Pulls The Strings Which Make Us Dance; We Find Delight In The Most Loathsome Things; Some Furtherance Of Hell Each New Day Brings, And Yet We Feel No Horror In That Rank Advance.