Journalism is a giant catapult set in motion by pigmy hatreds.
Misfortune makes of certain souls a vast desert through which rings the voice of God.
The greater a man's talents, the more marked his idiosyncracies. Yet in the provinces originality is considered perilously close to lunacy.
But does not happiness come from the soul within?
There are words which cut like steel.
Many men nourish a pride which urges them to conceal their struggles and show themselves only as conquerors.