Truth Is Meant To Save

Hell Is Not To Love Anymore.

I Know The Compassion Of Others Is A Relief At First. I Don't Despise It. But It Can't Quench Pain, It Slips Through Your Soul As Through A Sieve. And When Our Suffering Has Been Dragged From One Pity To Another, As From One Mouth To Another, We Can No Longer Respect Or Love It.

You Owe It To Everyone You Love To Find Pockets Of Tranquility In Your Busy World.

Money-crimes Have An Abstract Quality. History Is Laden With The Victims Of Gold, But Their Remains Are Odourless.

[t]he Cradle Is Shallower Than The Grave.