Do anything, but let it produce joy. Do anything, but let it yield ecstasy.

The Teutons have been singing the swan song ever since they entered the ranks of history. They have always confounded truth with death.

For some reason or other man looks for the miracle, and to accomplish it he will wade through blood. He will debauch himself with ideas, he will reduce himself to a shadow if for only one second of his life he can close his eyes to the hideousness of reality. Everything is endured-disgrace, humiliation, poverty, war, crime, ennui-in the belief that overnight something will occur, a miracle, which will render life tolerable.

The study of crime begins with the knowledge of oneself.

To live without killing is a thought which could electrify the world, if men were only capable of staying awake long enough to let the idea soak in.

You must be life for me to the very end," so he writes. "That is the only way in which to sustain my idea of you. Because you have gotten, as you see, tied up with something so vital to me, I do not think I shall ever shake you off. Nor do I wish to. I want you to live more vitally every day, as I am dead. That is why, when I speak of you to others, I am just a bit ashamed. It's hard to talk of one's self so intimately

I believe in saying the truth, coming out with it cold, shocking if necessary, not disguising it.