The Hatred Of Luxury Is Not An

Let Us Leave To The Brain What Belongs To It, And Agree That The Work Of The Men Of Genius Is Of The Superhuman, The Offspring Of Man.

Men Like Me Are Impossible Until The Day When They Become Necessary.

Puns Are The Droppings Of Soaring Wits.

The Malicious Have A Dark Happiness.

He Had, They Said, Tasted In Succession All The Apples Of The Tree Of Knowledge, And, Whether From Hunger Or Disgust, Had Ended By Tasting The Forbidden Fruit.