When the suicide arrived at the sky, the people there asked him: Why? He replied: Because no one admired me.
Every sin is the result of a collaboration
So it came to pass that as he trudged from the place of blood and wrath his soul changed.
His feet where retarded.
He turned now with a lover's thirst to images of tranquil skies, fresh meadows, cool brooks— an existence of soft and eternal peace.
Camp fires, like red, peculiar blossoms, dotted the night.
In the desert I saw a creature, naked, bestial, Who, squatting upon the ground, Held his heart in his hands, And ate of it. I said, Is it good, friend? It is bitter—bitter, he answered; But I like it...
There was a man with tongue of woodWho essayed to sing,And in truth it was lamentable.But there was one who heardThe clip-clapper of this tongue of woodAnd knew what the manWished to sing,And with tha...
Held his heart in his hands,And ate of it.I said: Is it good, friend?It is bitter - bitter, he answered;But I like it
A man with a full stomach and the respect of his fellows had no business to scold about anything that he might think to be wrong in the ways of the universe, or even with the ways of society. Let the...
There was a man with tongue of wood who essayed to sing,and in truth it was lamentable;but there was one who heard the clip-clapper of this tongue of wood,
And it was as if fate had betrayed the soldier. In death it exposed to his enemies that poverty which in life he had perhaps concealed from his friends.
It was surprising that Nature had gone tranquilly on with her golden process in the midst of so much devilment.
I stood upon a high place, And saw, below, many devils Running, leaping, and carousing in sin.
I like the people. But, considered generally, they are a collection of ingenious blockheads.
Nothing is so much to be regretted as the universe.
The slaves toiling in the temple of this god began to feel rebellion at his harsh tasks.
The moon had been lighted and was hung in a treetop.
The girl, Maggie, blossomed in a mud puddle.
It perhaps might be said--if any one dared--that the most worthless literature of the world has been that which has been written by the men of one nation concerning the men of another.