She Had Already Allowed Her Delectable Lover

Anything Beyond The Limits And Grasp Of The Human Mind Is Either Illusion Or Futility; And Because Your God Having To Be One Or The Other Of The Two, In The First Instance I Should Be Mad To Believe In Him, And In The Second A Fool.

Hope Is The Most Sensitive Part Of A Poor Wretch's Soul; Whoever Raises It Only To Torment Him Is Behaving Like The Executioners In Hell Who, They Say, Incessantly Renew Old Wounds And Concentrate Their Attention On That Area Of It That Is Already Lacerated.

Humane Sentiments Are Baseless, Mad, And Improper; They Are Incredibly Feeble; Never Do They Withstand The Gainsaying Passions, Never Do They Resist Bare Necessity.

The Mirror Sees The Man As Beautiful, The Mirror Loves The Man; Another Mirror Sees The Man As Frightful And Hates Him; And It Is Always The Same Being Who Produces The Impressions.

If The Objects Who Serve Us Feel Ecstacy, They Are Much More Often Concerned With Themselves Than With Us, And Our Own Enjoyment Is Consequently Impaired. The Idea Of Seeing Another Person Experience The Same Pleasure Reduces One To A Kind Of Equality Which Spoils The Unutterable Charms That Come From Despotism.