The tides are in our veins, we still mirror the stars, life is your child, but there is in me Older and harder than life and more impartial, the eye that watched before there was an ocean.
Imagination, the traitor of the mind, has taken my solitude and slain it.
Pleasure is the carrot dangled to lead the ass to market; or the precipice.
He is strong and pain is worse to the strong, incapacity is worse.
We have to live like people in a web of knives, we mustn't reach out our hands or we get them gashed.
I learned that ruling poor men's hands is nothing. Ruling men's money's a wedge in the world. But after I'd split it open a crack I looked in and saw the trick inside it, the filthy nothing, the fooled and rotten faces of rich and successful men.