You Have No Idea, Sir, How Difficult

I Belong To No Race Nor Time. I Am The Eternal Feminine With Its String Of Beads.

Folklore Is The Boiled-down Juice, Or Pot-likker, Of Human Living.

My Head Was Full Of Misty Fumes Of Doubt.

There Is A Basin In The Mind Where Words Float Around On Thought And Thought On Sound And Sight. Then There Is A Depth Of Thought Untouched By Words, And Deeper Still A Gulf Of Formless Feelings Untouched By Thought.

All Gods Who Receive Homage Are Cruel. All Gods Dispense Suffering Without Reason. Otherwise They Would Not Be Worshipped. Through Indiscriminate Suffering Men Know Fear And Fear Is The Most Divine Emotion. It Is The Stones For Altars And The Beginning Of Wisdom. Half Gods Are Worshipped In Wine And Flowers. Real Gods Require Blood.