I do not write often now - not for want of something to say, but from a loathing of all I see and hear. Why dwell upon it?
Of all our sorrows, memory is the worst.
The weight that hangs upon our eyelids - is of lead.
I do not allow myself vain regrets or foreboding.
A freshet in the autumn does not compensate for a drought in the spring.
We are scattered, stunned; the remnant of heart left alive is filled with brotherly hate... Whose fault? Everybody blamed somebody else. Only the dead heroes left stiff and stark on the battlefield escape.