Money (n.) makes virtue, says the Englishman; it is certain also that money makes vice.
Money (n.) is, eternally, less than nothing: imagine eternity in financial embarrassment — laughter's excellent invention; you would wish to find trees, flowers and birdsong there again, but never money, or heaven would become a land of wretchedness.
Money (n.) does smell, contrary to the pagan emperor: Christianity teaches that money as such smells bad, and mercy is the powerful perfume needed to drive out the stench.
Money (n.) has completely triumphed when it can make unmerciful even those who have none.
Money (n.) is the modern dragon: where once love fought ogres and cruel fathers, now we sit through four acts hoping a rich uncle dies in the fifth.
Money (n.) is a capital means for resolving every personal relationship — which is exactly why the aesthete wants to pay everyone, even the wedding guests.
Money (n.) is the nervus rerum and absolute condition for living in the aesthete's view — a view that murders in cold blood all joy in life for him who has none.
Money (n.) is not needed by the dead, as we all know; the living man who has no use for it is either very rich or a poor Christian.