No, I have lost in advance. I shall therefore voice my love. I now trust only in the beauty of my song (147).
I don't know much about Evil, but we must indeed have been angels to remain poised above our own crimes. The gravest insult among toughs--it is very often punished by death--is the word "cocksucker," and Bulkaen had chosen to be precisely what that vilest of words designates. He had even decided that it would be what was most personal, most precious in his life, since in prison he was first of all, before being a crasher, a pal, a "regular guy,"--and though he was all that--he was first of all "a guy who gives a blow-job." When you saw him, with his usual scowl of disgust, spit the words "little fag" at a jerk, you would never have thought that he himself was a chicken. Thus, there do exist fellows who voluntarily, and out of choice, are, in their heart of hearts, what is expressed by the most scurrilous insult, which they use to humiliate their opponents. Bulkaen was an angel for managing to maintain his balance so elegantly above his abjectness (149).
Music is the approval of action. It is joyous and drunk when it approves drama (155).
The author of a beautiful poem is always dead (191).