It Is Quiet And Peaceful Here, The

We Kill Everybody, My Dear. Some With Bullets, Some With Words, And Everybody With Our Deeds. We Drive People Into Their Graves, And Neither See It Nor Feel It.

Truth Doesn't Always Heal A Wounded Soul.

Many Contemporary Authors Drink More Than They Write.

Everywhere, Within Man And Without, There Is Devastation, Instability, Chaos, And Evidence Of Some Prolonged Rout.

It Is Quiet And Peaceful Here, The Air Is Good, There Are Numerous Gardens, And In Them Nightingales Sing And Spies Lurk Under The Bushes.