Ah, Fist, it’s the curse of history that those who should read them, never do.

All art is an intensely vulnerable gesture, and it is made with no small amounts of risk, and fear. So, I have plenty of sympathy for self-defense mechanisms, especially among artists.

Death cannot be struggled against, brother. It ever arrives, defiant of every hiding place, of every frantic attempt to escape. Death is every mortal's shadow, his true shadow, and time is its servant, spinning that shadow slowly round, until what stretched behind one now stretches before him.

I mean the only thing us dead soldiers got in common is that none of us was good enough or lucky enough to survive the fight. We're a host of failures.

I warn you all, hatred is finding fertile soil within me. And in your compassion, in your every good intention, you nurture it.

Paradise belonged to the innocent. Which was why it was and would ever remain empty. And that is what makes it a paradise.

Your brain works with all the subtlety of a malicious child.