Stop War? Impossible! There Is No Cure

All Lovers In The World Are Alike: They Fall In Love By Chance; They See Each Other, And Are Attached To Each Other By The Features Of Their Faces; They Illuminate Each Other By The Fierce Preference Which Is Akin To Madness; They Assert The Reality Of Illusions; And For A Moment They Change Falsehood Into Truth.

I Believe, In Spite Of All, In Truth's Victory. I Believe In The Momentous Value, Hereafter Inviolable, Of Those Few Truly Fraternal Men In All The Countries Of The World, Who, In The Oscillation Of National Egoisms Let Loose, Stand Up And Stand Out, Steadfast As The Glorious Statues Of Right And Duty.

We Have The Divinity Of Our Great Misery. And Our Solitude, With Its Toilsome Ideas, Tears And Laughter, Is Fatally Divine.

I Am More Sensitive Than Other People. Things That Other People Would Not Notice Awaken A Distinct Echo In Me, And In Such Moments Of Lucidity, When I Look At Myself, I See That I Am Alone, All Alone, All Alone.

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.