The Profession Of The Writer Has Its

Nevertheless, In This Sea Of Human Wretchedness And Malice There Bloomed At Times Compassion, As A Pale Flower Blooms In A Putrid Marsh.

It Is An Altogether Wrong Idea That The Modern Product Of Civilization Is Less Susceptible To Love. I Sometimes Think It Is The Other Way.

Amid The Stillness Of The Night, In The Depths Of The Ravine, From The Direction In Which The Corpses Lay Suddenly Resounded A Kind Of Inhuman, Frightful Laughter In Which Quivered Despair, And Joy, And Cruelty, And Suffering, And Pain, And Sobbing, And Derision; The Heart-rending And Spasmodic Laughter Of The Insane Or Condemned.

He Always Smiles, Even When Contemplating Nothing Good.

The Fact Is That Between The Classes There Is A Vast Gulf That Precludes All Mutual Understanding, And Makes Simultaneous Efforts Simply Impossible.