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

To drink is a small matter. To be thirsty is everything.

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

We can know nothing till after this grave debate. The soul must withdraw, for this is not its hour. Now the knife must divide the flesh, and lay the ravage bare, and do its work completely.

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.

It is always brave to say what everyone thinks.

You conquered the landscape with the soles of shoes, not the tires.