I Do Not Murmur, Even If My

Those Who Begin By Burning Books Will End By Burning People.

Woman Is At Once Apple And Serpent.

Perhaps Already I Am Dead, And These Perhaps Are Phantoms Vain; - These Motley Phantasies That Pass At Night Through My Disordered Brain. Perhaps With Ancient Heathen Shapes, Old Faded Gods, This Brain Is Full; Who, For Their Most Unholy Rites, Have Chosen A Dead Poet's Skull.

He Who Fears To Venture As Far As His Heart Urges And His Reason Permits, Is A Coward; He Who Ventures Further Than He Intended To Go, Is A Slave.

This Was But A Prelude; Where Books Are Burnt Human-beings Will Be Burnt In The End