Honour is manly decency. The shame of being found wanting in it means everything to us. Is this, then, the indefinable, the sacred thing?

Honour is manly decency. The shame of being found wanting in it means everything to us. Is this, then, the indefinable, the sacred thing?

Fainthearted animals move about in herds. The lion walks alone in the desert. Let the poet always walk thus.

Only silence is great; all else is weakness.

History is a novel for which the people is the author.

Hope is the greatest madness. What can we expect of a world that we enter with the assurance of seeing our fathers and mothers die? A world where, if two beings love each other and give their lives to each other, both can be sure that one will watch the other perish?

Of late years (perhaps as a result of our political changes) art has borrowed from history more than ever.