There Is Something Indecent In

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.

It's Pointless To Cry. One Is Born And Dies Alone.

For Women, History Does Not Exist. Murasaki, Sappho, And Madame Lafayette Might Be Their Own Contemporaries.

Love Has The Faculty Of Making Two Lovers Seem Naked, Not In Each Other's Sight, But In Their Own.

There Is Only One Pleasure-that Of Being Alive. All The Rest Is Misery.