How Could There Be Any Question Of

Nothing Can Match The Treasure Of Common Memories, Of Trials Endured Together, Of Quarrels And Reconciliations And Generous Emotions. It Is Idle, Having Planted An Acorn In The Morning, To Expect That Afternoon To Sit In The Shade Of The Oak.

We Do Not Pray For Immortality, But Only Not To See Our Acts And All Things Stripped Suddenly Of All Their Meaning; For Then It Is The Utter Emptiness Of Everything Reveals Itself.

Are Wars... Anything But The Means Whereby A Nation's Problems Are Set, Where Creation Is Stimulated - There You Have Adventure. But There Is No Adventure In Heads-or-tails, In Betting That The Toss Will Come Out Of Life Or Death. War Is Not An Adventure. It Is A Disease. It Is Like Typhus.

The Theoretician Believes In Logic And Believes That He Despises Dreams, Intuition, And Poetry. He Does Not Recognize That These Three Fairies Have Only Disguised Themselves In Order To Dazzle Him.... He Does Not Know That He Owes His Greatest Discoveries To Them.

The Seed Haunted By The Sun Never Fails To Find Its Way Between The Stones In The Ground. And The Pure Logician, If No Sun Draws Him Forth, Remains Entangled In His Logic.