There is nothing nicer than nodding off while reading. Going fast asleep and then being woken by the crash of the book on the floor, then saying to yourself, well it doesn't matter much. An admirable feeling.

We learn nothing from history except the infinite variety of men's behaviour.

The crusade against Communism was even more imaginary than the specter of Communism.

History gets thicker as it approaches recent times: more people, more events, and more books written about them. More evidence is preserved, often, one is tempted to say, too much. Decay and destruction have hardly begun their beneficent work.

The great armies, accumulated to provide security and preserve the peace, carried the nations to war by their own weight.

In 1917 European history, in the old sense, came to an end. World history began. It was the year of Lenin and Woodrow Wilson, both of whom repudiated the traditional standards of political behaviour. Both preached Utopia, Heaven on Earth. It was the moment of birth for our contemporary world.

History is not another name for the past, as many people imply. It is the name for stories about the past.