Wherever he goes, whatever he does, he will always see that word: murder—immortally inscribed upon the pediment of that vast slaughterhouse—humanity.

Murder is born of love, and love attains the greatest intensity in murder

Everything she heard, everything she saw seemed to be in disagreement with her own manner of understanding and feeling. To her, the sun did not appear red enough, the nights pale enough, the skies deep enough. Her fleeting conception of things and beings condemned her fatally to a perversion of her senses, to vagaries of the spirit and left her nothing but the torment of an unachieved longing, the torture of unfulfilled desires.

When one tears away the veils and shows them naked, people's souls give off such a pungent smell of decay.

Desire can attain the darkest human terror and give an actual ideal of hell and its horror.

When one tears away the veils and shows them naked, people's souls give off such a pungent smell of decay.