Promise To Give Me A

It Is The End. But Of What? The End Of France? No. The End Of Kings? Yes.

I Am Not In The World To Care For My Life, But For Souls.

Dear God! How Beauty Varies In Nature And Art. In A Woman The Flesh Must Be Like Marble; In A Statue The Marble Must Be Like Flesh.

There Are Souls Which, Crab-like, Crawl Continually Toward Darkness, Going Back In Life Rather Than Advancing In It, Using What Experience They Have To Increase Their Deformity, Growing Worse Without Ceasing, And Becoming Steeped More And More Thoroughly In An Intensifying Wickedness.

. . .where There Is No More Hope, Song Remains.