Glory - Once Achieved, What Is It

Maniacs Of Procreation, Bipeds With Devalued Faces, We Have Lost All Appeal For Each Other.

History Is Nothing But A Procession Of False Absolutes, A Series Of Temples Raised To Pretexts, A Degradation Of The Mind Before The Improbable.

I Have Tried To Protect Myself Against Men, To React Against Their Madness To Discern Its Source; I Have Listened And I Have Seen--and I Have Been Afraid Of Acting For The Same Motives Or For Any Motive Whatever, Of Believing In The Same Ghosts Or In Any Other Ghost, Of Letting Myself Be Engulfed By The Same Intoxications Or By Some Other... Afraid, In Short, Of Raving In Common And Of Expiring In A Horde Of Ecstasies.

What Would Be Left Of Our Tragedies If An Insect Were To Present Us His?

To Have Committed Every Crime But That Of Being A Father.