We Want Realism's Wealth Of Experience And

The Richness Of Life Lies In Memories We Have Forgotten.

Because, To Despise Money, One Must Have Plenty Of It.

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.

The Act The Act Must Not Be A Revenge. It Must Be A Calm, Weary Renunciation, A Closing Of Accounts, A Private, Rhythmic Deed. The Last Remark.

Traveling Is A Brutality. It Forces You To Trust Strangers And To Lose Sight Of All That Familiar Comfort Of Home And Friends. You Are Constantly Off Balance. Nothing Is Yours Except The Essential Things: Air, Sleep, Dreams, Sea, The Sky - All Things Tending Towards The Eternal Or What We Imagine Of It.