But Secondly You Say 'society Must Exact

The Heart Becomes Heroic Through Passion. It Is No Longer Composed Of Anything But What Is Pure; It No Longer Rests Upon Anything But What Is Elevated And Great.

Art Needs No Spur Beyond Itself.

The Book Which The Reader Now Holds In His Hands, From One End To The Other, As A Whole And In Its Details, Whatever Gaps, Exceptions, Or Weaknesses It May Contain, Treats Of The Advance From Evil To Good, From Injustice To Justice, From Falsity To Truth, From Darkness To Daylight, From Blind Appetite To Conscience, From Decay To Life, From Bestiality To Duty, From Hell To Heaven, From Limbo To God. Matter Itself Is The Starting-point, And The Point Of Arrival Is The Soul. Hydra At The Beginning, An Angel At The End.

We Are All Under Sentence Of Death, But With A Sort Of Indefinite Reprieve.

Humanity Is Our Common Lot. All Men Are Made Of The Same Clay. There Is No Difference, At Least Here On Earth, In The Fate Assigned To Us. We Come Of The Same Void, Inhabit The Same Flesh, Are Dissolved In The Same Ashes. But Ignorance Infecting The Human Substance Turns It Black, And That Incurable Blackness, Gaining Possession Of The Soul, Becomes Evil.