People Are Machines Of Forgetfulness

The Woman From The Depths Of Her Rags, A Waif, A Martyr — Smiled. She Must Have A Divine Heart To Be So Tired And Yet Smile.

It Was Suicide. Others Killed Themselves With Poison Or With A Revolver. I Killed Myself With Minutes And Hours.

Stop War? Impossible! There Is No Cure For The World's Disease.

There Is No Hell, No Inferno Except The Frenzy Of Living.

Whatever Our Ignorance Left To Itself, And Whatever The Wounds That Other Human Beings Are, We Ought To Study Ourselves With A Sort Of Devotion.