The beast faith lives on its own dung.

There is no God found stronger than death; and death is a sleep.

Wherever there is a grain of loyalty there is a glimpse of freedom.

And the best and the worst of this is That neither is most to blame, If you have forgotten my kisses And I have forgotten your name.

The more congenial page of some tenth-rate poeticule worn out with failure after failure and now squat in his hole like the tailless fox, he is curled up to snarl and whimper beneath the inaccessible vine of song.

The beast faith lives on its own dung.

To wipe off the froth of falsehood from the foaming lips of inebriated virtue, when fresh from the sexless orgies of morality and reeling from the delirious riot of religion, may doubtless be a charitable office.