A man must be sacrificed now and again to provide for the next generation of men.

When you came, you were like red wine and honey, and the taste of you burnt my mouth with its sweetness.

Happiness: We rarely feel it. I would buy it, beg it, steal it, Pay in coins of dripping blood For this one transcendent good.

Love is a game-yes? I think it is a drowning.

Hate is ravening vulture beaks descending on a place of skulls.

Art is the desire of a man to express himself, to record the reactions of his personality to the world he lives in.

Happiness, to some, is elation; to others it is mere stagnation.