The Only Certainty Is Death.

War! When I But Think Of This Word, I Feel Bewildered, As Though They Were Speaking To Me Of Sorcery, Of The Inquisition, Of A Distant, Finished, Abominable, Monstrous, Unnatural Thing. When They Speak To Us Of Cannibals, We Smile Proudly, As We Proclaim Our Superiority To These Savages. Who Are The Real Savages? Those Who Struggle In Order To Eat Those Whom They Vanquish, Or Those Who Struggle Merely To Kill?

The Public Is Composed Of Numerous Groups Whose Cry To Us Writers Is: 'comfort Me.' 'amuse Me.' 'touch My Sympathies.' 'make Me Sad.' 'make Me Dream.' 'make Me Laugh.' 'make Me Shiver.' 'make Me Weep.' 'make Me Think.'

There Are In France Some Fifty Thousand Young Men Of Good Birth And Fairly Well Off Who Are Encouraged To Live A Life Of Complete Idleness. They Must Either Cease To Exist Or Must Come To See That There Can Be No Happiness, No Health Even, Without Regular Daily Labor Of Some Sort... The Need Of Work Is In Me.

I Go To Bed, And I Wait For Sleep As A Man Might Wait For The Executioner. I Wait For Its Coming With Dread, And My Heart Beats And My Legs Tremble, While My Whole Body Shivers Beneath The Warmth Of The Bedclothes, Until The Moment When I Suddenly Fall Asleep, As A Man Throws Himself Into A Pool Of Stagnant Water In Order To Drown. I Do Not Feel This Perfidious Sleep Coming Over Me As I Used To, But A Sleep Which Is Close To Me And Watching Me, Which Is Going To Seize Me By The Head, To Close My Eyes And Annihilate Me.

It Is Better To Be Unhappy In Love Than Unhappy In Marriage, But Some People Manage To Be Both.