And, my brothers, it was real satisfaction to me to waltz-left two three, right two three-and carve left cheeky and right cheeky, so that like two curtains of blood seemed to pour out at the same time, one on either side of his fat filthy oily snout in the winter starlight.
Blessed tree and blessed birds, that were to be neither saved nor damned.
Each man kills the thing he loves.
A novelist should not be too intelligent either, although... he may be permitted to be an intellectual.
As we are all solipsists, and all die, the world dies with us. Only very minor literature aims at apocalypse.
He said it was artificial respiration, but now I find I am to have his child.
But, brothers, this biting of their toe-nails over what is the CAUSE of badness is what turns me into a fine laughing malchick. They don't go into what is the cause of GOODNESS, so why of the other shop?
Immortality makes sense only when the individual soul can be thought of as merging into a great collective mush of sainthood. If we take anything with us into the next world, it is not what survives in the memories of our relicts.
I was always on my oddy knocky.
This must be a real horrorshow film if you're so keen on my viddying it.
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