Two armies at death-grips — that is one great army committing suicide.

At the touch of mankind, things wear away with heartbreaking slowness.

People are machines of forgetfulness

The woman from the depths of her rags, a waif, a martyr — smiled. She must have a divine heart to be so tired and yet smile.

We have the divinity of our great misery. And our solitude, with its toilsome ideas, tears and laughter, is fatally divine.

Let everything be remade on simple lines. There is only one people, there is only one people!

Two armies at death-grips — that is one great army committing suicide.