Twentieth pupil of the centuries knows its stuff and bird-changed this century like Jesus climbs the sky.

My, how beautiful is war! its songs, its leisure!

Without poets, without artists, men would soon weary of nature's monotony.

I don't want to work. I want to smoke.

Twentieth pupil of the centuries knows its stuff and bird-changed this century like Jesus climbs the sky.

Memories are hunting horns whose sound dies on the wind.

One can't carry one's father's corpse about everywhere.