Kill One Man, And You Are Murderer.

On The Brink Of Being Satiated, Desire Still Appears Infinite.

To Say Of Men That They Are Bad Is To Say They Are Worse Than We Think We Are, Or Worse Than The Ideal Man Whose Image We Have Built Up On The Basis Of A Certain Few.

One Kills A Man, One Is An Assassin; One Kills Millions, One Is A Conqueror; One Kills Everybody, One Is A God.

We Find It Easy To Believe That Praise Is Sincere: Why Should Anyone Lie In Telling Us The Truth?

We Bestow On Others Praise In Which We Do Not Believe, On Condition That In Return They Bestow Upon Us Praise In Which We Do.