The day when I am no more than a writer I shall cease to be a writer.

Culture: the cry of men in face of their destiny.

Without memories, without hope, they lived for the moment only. indeed, the here and now had come to mean everything to them. For there is no denying that the plague had gradually killed off in all of us the faculty not of love only but even of friendship. Naturally enough, since love asks something of the future, and nothing was left us but a series of present moments.

When love ceases to be tragic it is something else and the individual again throws himself in search of tragedy.

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?

What I believe to be true I must therefore preserve. What seems to me so obvious, even against me, I must support.

We get into the habit of living before acquiring the habit of thinking. In that race which daily hastens us towards death, the body maintains its irreparable lead.