An Army Marches On Its Stomach.

The Mohammedan Religion Is The Finest Of All.

I Am The Successor, Not Of Louis Xvi, But Of Charlemagne.

It Is Not Enough To Give Orders They Must Be Obeyed.

As For Me, To Love You Alone, To Make You Happy, To Do Nothing Which Would Contradict Your Wishes, This Is My Destiny And The Meaning Of My Life.

This Soldier, I Realized, Must Have Had Friends At Home And In His Regiment; Yet He Lay There Deserted By All Except His Dog. I Looked On, Unmoved, At Battles Which Decided The Future Of Nations. Tearless, I Had Given Orders Which Brought Death To Thousands. Yet Here I Was Stirred, Profoundly Stirred, Stirred To Tears. And By What? By The Grief Of One Dog. Napoleon Bonaparte, On Finding A Dog Beside The Body Of His Dead Master, Licking His Face And Howling, On A Moonlit Field After A Battle. Napoleon Was Haunted By This Scene Until His Own Death.