The crowd, still shouting, gives way before us. We plough our way through. Women hold their aprons over their faces and go stumbling away. A roar of fury goes up. A wounded man is being carried off.

To forget is the secret of eternal youth. One grows old only through memory. There's much too little forgetting.

Life did not intend to make us perfect. Whoever is perfect belongs in a museum.

Through the years our business has been killing;-it was our first calling in life. Our knowledge of lif eis limited to death.

The crowd, still shouting, gives way before us. We plough our way through. Women hold their aprons over their faces and go stumbling away. A roar of fury goes up. A wounded man is being carried off.

Strange how complicated we can make things just to avoid showing what we feel!

Modesty and conscientiousness receive their reward only in novels. In life they are exploited and then shoved aside.