There is nothing so wrong in this world that a sensible woman can't set it right in the course of an afternoon.

Who would prefer peace to the glory of hunger and thirst, of wading through mud, and dying in the service of one's country?

Human beings are like timid punctuation marks sprinkled among the incomprehensible sentences of life.

There's a kind of permission for war which can be given only by the world's mood and atmosphere, the feel of its pulse. It would be madness to undertake a war without that permission.

All the evil in the world is the fault of the self-styled pure in heart, a result of their eagerness to unearth secrets and expose them to the light of the sun.

Everyone, when there's war in the air, learns to live in a new element: falsehood.

Sadness flies on the wings of the morning, and out of the heart of darkness comes the light.