Traveling Is A Brutality. It Forces You

Now That I've Seen What War Is, What Civil War Is, I Know That Everybody, If One Day It Should End, Ought To Ask Himself: "and What Shall We Make Of The Fallen? Why Are They Dead?" I Wouldn't Know What To Say. Not Now, At Any Rate. Nor Does It Seem To Me That The Others Know. Perhaps Only Dead Know, And Only For Them Is The War Really Over.

How Can You Have Confidence In A Woman Who Will Not Risk Entrusting Her Whole Life To You, Day And Night?

Suffering Is By No Means A Privilege, A Sign Of Nobility, A Reminder Of God. Suffering Is A Fierce, Bestial Thing, Commonplace, Uncalled For, Natural As Air. It Is Intangible; No One Can Grasp It Or Fight Against It; It Dwells In Time - Is The Same Thing As Time; If It Comes In Fits And Starts, That Is Only So As To Leave The Sufferer More Defenseless During The Moments That Follow, Those Long Moments When One Relives The Last Bout Of Torture And Waits For The Next.

The Slowness Of Time, For A Man Who Knows Nothing Will Happen, Is Brutal.

People Who Don't Know Any Better Will Always Be In The Dark Because The Power Lies In The Hands Of Men Who Take Good Care That Ordinary Folk Don't Understand, In The Hands, That Is, Of The Government, Of The Clerical Party, Of The Capitalists.