He Was Like A Child

Our Worst Enemies Here Are Not The Ignorant And Simple, However Cruel; Our Worst Enemies Are The Intelligent And Corrupt

You Cannot Control What You Love--you Watch It Driving Recklessly Towards The Broken Bridge, The Torn-up Track, The Horror Of Seventy Years Ahead.

Pain Is Easy To Write. In Pain We're All Happily Individual. But What Can One Write About Happiness?

You Cannot Conceive, Nor Can I, Of The Appalling Strangeness Of The Mercy Of God.

They Can Print Statistics And Count The Populations In Hundreds Of Thousands, But To Each Man A City Consists Of No More Than A Few Streets, A Few Houses, A Few People. Remove Those Few And A City Exists No Longer Except As A Pain In The Memory, Like A Pain Of An Amputated Leg No Longer There.