Life Is A God-damned, Stinking, Treacherous Game

Words Are But The Vague Shadows Of The Volumes We Mean. Little Audible Links, They Are, Chaining Together Great Inaudible Feelings And Purposes.

When A Girl Leaves Her Home At Eighteen, She Does One Of Two Things. Either She Falls Into Saving Hands And Becomes Better, Or She Rapidly Assumes The Cosmopolitan Standard Of Virtue And Becomes Worse

Art Is The Stored Honey Of The Human Soul, Gathered On Wings Of Misery And Travail.

Love Is The Only Thing You Can Really Give In All This World. When You Give Love, You Give Everything.

Nothing Is Proved, All Is Permitted.