“The ImmortalsI killed them, but they would not die.Yea! all the day and all the nightFor them I could not rest or sleep,Nor guard from them nor hide in flight.Then in my agony I turnedAnd made my hands red in their gore.In vain - for faster than I slewThey rose more cruel than before.I killed and killed with slaughter mad;I killed till all my strength was gone.And still they rose to torture me,For Devils only die in fun.I used to think the Devil hidIn women’s smiles and wine’s carouse.I called him Satan, Balzebub.But now I call him, dirty louse. ”

“I will not leave a corner of my consciousness covered up, but saturate myself with the strange and extraordinary new conditions of this life, and it will all refine itself into poetry later on.”

“God In his malodorous brain what slugs and mire,Lanthorned in his oblique eyes, guttering burned!His body lodged a rat where men nursed souls.The world flashed grape-green eyes of a foiled catTo him. On fragments of an old shrunk power,On shy and maimed, on women wrung awry,He lay, a bullying hulk, to crush them more.But when one, fearless, turned and clawed like bronze,Cringing was easy to blunt these stern paws,And he would weigh the heavier on those after.Who rests in God's mean flattery now? Your wealthIs but his cunning to make death more hard.Your iron sinews take more pain in breaking.And he has made the market for your beautyToo poor to buy, although you die to sell.Only that he has never heard of sleep;And when the cats come out the rats are sly.Here we are safe till he slinks in at dawnBut he has gnawed a fibre from strange roots,And in the morning some pale wonder ceases.Things are not strange and strange things are forgetful.Ah! if the day were arid, somehow lostOut of us, but it is as hair of us,And only in the hush no wind stirs it.And in the light vague trouble lifts and breathes,And restlessness still shadows the lost ways.The fingers shut on voices that pass through,Where blind farewells are taken easily ....Ah! this miasma of a rotting God!”

“I don't know and I don't care anymore. I was supposed to have my way for once, just once in my life. I did everything right and I got nothing for it.I want to kill them all. no, better yet, I want to die. No, even bettter than that: I want to kill them all then die.”

“Those wolves were crueler even than the Japanese devils. They knew that all they had to do was rip open the bellies and let the horses die under their own hooves. I've never seen anything more sinister, more savage in my life. Those wolves embody the spirit of the Japanese samurai. Suicidal attacks don't faze them, and that makes Mongol wolves more fearful than any others. I won't rest till I kill every last one of them!”

“They’d lied to me and betrayed me, leaving jagged edges where all my trust had been, and I didn’t like or respect or admire them any more, but still I loved them. I had no choice. I understood that, perfectly, standing in the white wilderness of snow. You can’t kill love. You can’t even kill it with hate. You can kill in-love, and loving, and even loveliness. You can kill them all, or numb them into dense, leaden regret, but you can’t kill love itself. Love is the passionate search for a truth other than your own; and once you feel it, honestly and completely, love is forever. Every act of love, every moment of the heart reaching out, is a part of the universal good: it’s a part of God, or what we call God, and it can never die.”

“For every heretic it burned at the stake, thousands of others rose up. Why was that? Because the Inquisition kills its enemies in the open, and killed them while they were still on repentant; in fact, it killed them because they were unrepentant. Men were dying because they would not abandon their true beliefs. Naturally all the glory along to the victim and all the shame to the Inquisitor who burned him.”