On An Exhausted Field, Only Weeds Grow.

The Shots Had Dispersed The Birds; There Remained Only Two Marabous, Standing Between Ten And Twenty Paces Away And Plunged In Reverie. They Were Like Two Old Men With Bald Heads Pressed Between The Shoulders.

The Sky Is One Whole, The Water Another; And Between Those Two Infinities The Soul Of Man Is In Loneliness.

Evidently The Merit Depends On The Result Of The Work.

On An Exhausted Field, Only Weeds Grow.

Amid The Stillness Of The Night, In The Depths Of The Ravine, From The Direction In Which The Corpses Lay Suddenly Resounded A Kind Of Inhuman, Frightful Laughter In Which Quivered Despair, And Joy, And Cruelty, And Suffering, And Pain, And Sobbing, And Derision; The Heart-rending And Spasmodic Laughter Of The Insane Or Condemned.