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.

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

I love the majesty of human suffering.

But it is the province of religion, of philosophy, of pure poetry only, to go beyond life, beyond time, into eternity.

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

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

Just as we descend into our consciences to judge of actions which our minds can not weigh, can we not also search in ourselves for the feeling which gives birth to forms of thought, always vague and cloudy?