To me the front is a mysterious whirlpool. Though I am in still water far away from its centre, I feel the whirl of the vortex sucking me slowly, irresistibly, inescapably into itself.

That is the remarkable thing about drinking: it brings people together so quickly, but between night and morning it sets an interval again of years.

With blinded eyes I stared at the sky, this grey, endless sky of a crazy god, who had made life and death for his amusement.

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

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

Everyone saves someone at least once. Just as he kills someone at least once. Even though he may not know it.

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.