We are all born marked for evil.

Evil is done without effort, naturally, it is the working of fate; good is always the product of an art.

Evil is committed without effort, naturally, fatally; goodness is always the product of some art.

Evil is done without effort, naturally, it is the working of fate; good is always the product of an art

I sit in the sky like a sphinx misunderstood; My heart of snow is wed to the whiteness of swans; I hate the movement that displaces the rigid lines, With lips untaught neither tears nor laughter do I know.

The unique and supreme voluptuousness of love lies in the certainty of committing evil. And men and women know from birth that in evil is found all sensual delight.