It is only after that we understand what has come before, then we understand nothing. Thus we shall define the soul as follows: that which precedes everything.

The world has long ceased to be the author of your anguish.

I wanted a literate, socially intricate, and cosmopolitan world - something I could have fun destroying.

The thoughts of all men arise from the darkness. If you are the movement of your soul, and the cause of that movement precedes you, then how could you ever call your thoughts your own? How could you be anything other than a slave to the darkness that comes before?

You know nothing of war. War is dark. Black as pitch. It is not a God. It does not laugh or weep. It rewards neither skill nor daring. It is not a trial of souls, not the measure of wills. Even less is it a tool, a means to some womanish end. It is merely the place where the iron bones of the earth meet the hollow bones of men and break them.

Love is lust made meaningful. Hope is hunger made human.

History. Language. Passion. Custom. All these things determine what men say, think, and do. These are the hidden puppet-strings from which all men hang.