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If Belial had wrung the fruit of paradise in his own stained hands for Lucilius’ sake, he would have complained that it was too sweet; if he had separated every grain of salt from the sea, Lucilius would have asked why it proved so salty; if he had wrought the world to an obedient heel underneath his tempered hand, Lucilius would question why he had not taught it to beg! He was an insatiable being, by nature or in spite of it, who saw the world and found it wanting; he would tear what he loved apart at the seams merely to understand it, and in understanding, invite it to stand beside him once more. He was—well, he was dead. Hey, nobody was perfect. And Lucilius certainly wasn’t close.