Diplomacy is the art of telling people to go to hell in such a way that they ask for directions.

History with its flickering lamp stumbles along the trail of the past, trying to reconstruct its scenes, to revive its echoes, and kindle with pale gleams the passion of former days.

I do not understand the squeamishness about the use of gas. I am strongly in favour of using poisonous gas against uncivilized tribes.

To each there comes in their lifetime a special moment when they are figuratively tapped on the shoulder and offered the chance to do a very special thing, unique to them and fitted to their talents. What a tragedy if that moment finds them unprepared or unqualified for that which could have been their finest hour.

The poor girl does not know how to have a conversation. Unfortunately, she does know how to speak.

It is not given to princes, statesmen and captains to pierce the mysteries of the future, and even the most penetrating gaze reaches only conclusions which, however seemingly vindicated at a given moment, are inexorably effaced by time.

Don't talk to me about naval tradition. It's nothing but rum, sodomy, and the lash.