The Only Joy In The World Is

A Corpse Is What's Left After Waking Too Often.

You Will Hear Words Old And Spent And Useless Like Costumes Left Over From Yesterday's Parties.

The Real Affliction Of Old Age Is Remorse.

Traveling Is A Brutality. It Forces You To Trust Strangers And To Lose Sight Of All That Familiar Comfort Of Home And Friends

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.