I do not believe in God and I am not an atheist.

... I suppose that it is not so easy to go home and it takes a bit of time to make a son out of a stranger.

Men die and they are not happy.

There is a life and there is a death, and there are beauty and melancholy between.

There are plagues, and there are victims, and it's the duty of good men not to join forces with the plagues.

A stranger to myself and to the world, armed solely with a thought that negates itself as soon as it asserts, what is this condition in which I can have peace only by refusing to know and to live, in which the appetite for conquest bumps into walls that defy its assaults?

What will be left of the power of example if it is proved that capital punishment has another power, and a very real one, which degrades men to the point of shame, madness, and murder?