Our thoughts are clay, they are moulded with the changes of the days;--when we are resting they are good; under fire, they are dead. Fields of craters within and without.

Sweet dreams though the guns are booming.

My rage outweighs my shame, as always happens when one is really ashamed and knows he ought to be.

Bombardment, barrage, curtain-fire, mines, gas, tanks, machine-guns, hand-grenades - words, words, but they hold the horror of the world.

The wisest were just the poor and simple people. They knew the war to be a misfortune, whereas those who were better off, and should have been able to see more clearly what the consequences would be, were beside themselves with joy.

I want to think and at the same time that's the last thing in the world I want to do.

We have our dreams because without them we could not bear the truth.