There, where one burns books... one, in the end, burns men.
All special charters of freedom must be abrogated where the universal law of freedom is to flourish.
Woman is at once apple and serpent.
Whatever tears one may shed, in the end one always blows one's nose.
God will pardon me. It is His trade.
Perhaps already I am dead, And these perhaps are phantoms vain; - These motley phantasies that pass At night through my disordered brain. Perhaps with ancient heathen shapes, Old faded gods, this brain is full; Who, for their most unholy rites, Have chosen a dead poet's skull.