Hell, Madame, Is To Love

Justice In The Hands Of The Powerful Is Merely A Governing System Like Any Other. Why Call It Justice? Let Us Rather Call It Injustice, But Of A Sly Effective Order, Based Entirely On Cruel Knowledge Of The Resistance Of The Weak, Their Capacity For Pain, Humilation And Misery. Injustice Sustained At The Exact Degree Of Necessary Tension To Turn The Cogs Of The Huge Machine-for-the-making-of-rich-men, Without Bursting The Boiler.

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.

Hope Is A Risk That Must Be Run.

Only The Present Counts.

More Often Than Not, Nothingness Is Reluctantly And Despairingly Taken To Be The Only Hypothesis Possible When All The Others Have Failed, Since By Definition It Cannot Be Disproven And Is Beyond The Scope Of Reason.