Companions, the creator seeks, not corpses, not herds and believers. Fellow creators, the creator seeks -- those who inscribe new values on new tablets. Fellow creators, the creator seeks, and fellow harvesters; for everything about him is ripe for the harvest.
His real error had been the naive belief that his definition of pleasure significantly overlapped with that of the Cenobites. As it was, they had brought incalculable suffering. They had overdosed him on sensuality until his mind teetered on madness, then they'd initiated him into experiences that his nerves still convulsed to recall. They had called it pleasure, and perhaps they meant it. Perhaps not. It was impossible to know with these minds; they were so hopelessly, flawlessly ambiguous.
On the front of the Octavo had been a representation of Bel-Shamharoth. He was not Evil, for even Evil has a certain vitality -- Bel-Shamharoth was the flip side of the coin of which Good and Evil are but one side.