The aim of life was meat. Life itself was meat. Life lived on life. There were the eaters and the eaten.

I write for no other purpose than to add to the beauty that now belongs to me. I write a book for no other reason than to add three or four hundred acres to my magnificent estate.

His bondage had softened him. Irresponsibility had weakened him. He had forgotten how to shift for himself. The night yawned about him.

Cruelty, as a fine art, has attained its perfect flower in the trained-animal world.

No; I did not hate him. The word is too weak. There is no word in the language strong enough to describe my feelings. I can say only that I knew the gnawing of a desire for vengeance on him that was a pain in itself and that exceeded all the bounds of language.

Fear urged him to go back, but growth drove him on.

Love, genuine passionate love, was his for the first time.