At War A Russian Man Puts On

And In This Silence Of The Dumb And These Speeches Of The Blind, In This Medly Of People Bound Together By The Same Grief, Terror And Hope, In This Hatred And Lack Of Understanding Between Men Who Spoke The Same Tongue, You Could See Much Of The Tragedy Of The Twentieth Century.

He Was Endowed With The Extraordinary Powers Of Endurance Characteristic Of Madmen And Simpletons.

There's Nothing More Difficult Than Saying Goodbye To A House Where You've Suffered.

There Was Something Terrible, But Also Something Sad And Melancholy In This Long Cry Uttered By The Russian Infantry As They Staged An Attack. As It Crossed The Cold Water, It Lost Its Fervour. Instead Of Valour Or Gallantry, You Could Hear The Sadness Of A Soul Parting With Everything That It Loved, Calling On Its Nearest And Dearest To Wake Up, To Lift Their Head From Their Pillows And Hear For The Last Time The Voice Of A Father, A Husband, A Son Or A Brother...

Chekhov Said: Let's Put God - And All These Grand Progressive Ideas - To One Side. Let's Begin With Man; Let's Be Kind And Attentive To The Individual Man - Whether He's A Bishop, A Peasant, An Industrial Magnate, A Convict In The Sakhalin Islands, Or A Waiter In A Restaurant. Let's Begin With Respect, Compassion, And Love For The Individual - Or We'll Never Get Anywhere.