From Hell

I shall tell you where we are. We're in the most extreme and utter region of the human mind. A dim, subconscious underworld. A radiant abyss where men meet themselves. Hell, Netley. We're in Hell.

The one place Gods inarguably exist is in our minds where they are real beyond refute, in all their grandeur and monstrosity.

Perhaps this is the purpose of all art, all writing, on the murders, fiction and non-fiction: Simply to participate.

I am not man so much as syndrome; as a voice that bellows in the human heart. I am rain. I cannot be contained

Tis Dante I prefer. In his Inferno he suggests the one true path from Hell lies at its very heart... ...and that in order to escape, we must instead go further IN.

Invoke not reason. In the end it is too small a deity.

Murder, other than in the most strict forensic sense, is never soluble. That dark human clot can never melt into a lucid, clear suspension. Our detective fiction tells us otherwise: everything is just meat and cold ballistics. Provide a murderer, a motive and a means, and you have solved the crime. Using this method, the solution to the Second World War is as follows: Hitler. The German economy. Tanks. Thus, for convenience, we reduce the complex events.

Los símbolos tiene poder, Netley... Poder suficiente como para retorcerle el estómago incluso a alguien como tú... O como para relegar a la mitad de este planeta a la esclavitud.

There never was a Jack the Ripper. Mary Kelly was just an unusually determined suicide. Why don't we leave it there.