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Your words smell of corpses.
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The life of the wealthy is one long Sunday.
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Dying people often become childish.
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The stars are scattered all over the sky like shimmering tears, there must be great pain in the eye from which they trickled.
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Peace to the shacks! War on the palaces!
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Death is the most blessed dream.
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The revolutionary government is the despotism of liberty against tyranny.
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A good man with a good conscience doesn't walk so fast.
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The world is chaos. Nothingness is the yet-to-be-born god of the world.
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Raise your eyes and count the small gang of your oppressors who are only strong through the blood they suck from you and through your arms which you lend them unwillingly.
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We are only puppets, our strings are being pulled by unknown forces.
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That is a long word: forever!
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The weapon of the Republic is terror, and virtue is its strength.
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They say in the grave there is peace, and peace and the grave are one and the same.
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There are only Epicureans, either crude or refined; Christ was the most refined.
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The statue of Freedom has not been cast yet, the furnace is hot, we can all still burn our fingers.
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Government must be a transparent garment which tightly clings to the people's body.
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One must love humanity in order to reach out into the unique essence of each individual: no one can be too low or too ugly.
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The death clock is ticking slowly in our breast, and each drop of blood measures its time, and our life is a lingering fever.
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Love is a peculiar thing.