France, for example, loves at the same time history and the drama, because the one explores the vast destinies of humanity, and the other the individual lot of man.

Poetry is the disease of the brain.

Hope is the biggest of our foolish things.

The existence of the soldier, next to capital punishment, is the most grievous vestige of barbarism which survives among men.

Invisible is real. Souls have their own world.

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?

I have a private theory, Sir, that there are no heroes and no monsters in this world. Only children should be allowed to use these words