Oh, What A Love It

It Snowed And Snowed, The Whole World Over, Snow Swept The World From End To End. A Candle Burned On The Table; A Candle Burned.

It´s A Good Thing When A Man Is Different From Your Image Of Him. Is Shows He Isn´t A Type. If He Were, It Would Be The End Of Him As A Man. But If You Can´t Place Him In A Category, It Means That At Least A Part Of Him Is What A Human Being Ought To Be. He Has Risen Above Himself, He Has A Grain Of Immortality.

All Mothers Are Mothers Of Great People, And It Is Not Their Fault That Life Later Disappoints Them.

And Why Is It, Thought Lara, That My Fate Is To See Everything And Take It All So Much To Heart?

No Single Man Makes History. History Cannot Be Seen, Just As One Cannot See Grass Growing. Wars And Revolutions, Kings And Robespierres, Are History's Organic Agents, Its Yeast. But Revolutions Are Made By Fanatical Men Of Action With One-track Mind, Geniuses In Their Ability To Confine Themselves To A Limited Field. They Overturn The Old Order In A Few Hours Or Days, The Whole Upheaval Takes A Few Weeks Or At Most Years, But The Fanatical Spirit That Inspired The Upheavals Is Worshiped For Decades Thereafter, For Centuries.