on him, under him, with his mouth pressed to hers, he sang to her uncouth songs that moved through her body.

Worse than not realizing the dreams of your youth, would be to have been young and never dreamed at all.

Prisons! Prisons! Prisons, dungeons, blessed places where evil is impossible since they are the crossroads of all the malediction in the world. One cannot commit evil in evil.

Slowly but surly I want to strip her of every kind of happiness as to make a saint of her.

The fame of heroes owes little to the extent of their conquests and all to the success of the tributes paid to them.

In reviewing my life, in tracing its course, I fill my cell with the pleasure of being what for want of a trifle I failed to be, recapturing, so that I may hurl myself into them as into dark pits, those moments when I strayed through the trap-ridden compartments of a subterranean sky

The pimp has a grin, never a smile.