In the beds which the piety of the public has prepared on every side, stricken men await the verdict of fate.

Suffering has roused them from the sleep of gentle life, and every day fills them with a terrible intoxication. They are now something more than themselves; those we loved were merely happy shadows.

There is no French town in which the wounds inflicted on the battle-field are not bleeding.

Let us lose none of their humble words, let us note their slightest gestures, and tell me, tell me that we will think of them together, now and later, when we realise the misery of the times and the magnitude of their sacrifice.

We do not know the true value of our moments until they have undergone the test of memory. Like the images the photographer plunges into a golden bath, our sentiments take on color; and only then, after that recoil and that trans-figuration, do we understand their real meaning and enjoy them in all their tranquil splendor.

Courtesy is not dead - it has merely taken refuge in Great Britain.

Do not trust your memory; it is a net full of holes; the most beautiful prizes slip through it.