One Must Look For One Thing Only,

Now That I've Seen What War Is, What Civil War Is, I Know That Everybody, If One Day It Should End, Ought To Ask Himself: "and What Shall We Make Of The Fallen? Why Are They Dead?" I Wouldn't Know What To Say. Not Now, At Any Rate. Nor Does It Seem To Me That The Others Know. Perhaps Only Dead Know, And Only For Them Is The War Really Over.

Why So Much Innuendo, Draped Like Ivy To Hide A Cesspool, When Everyone Knew The Cesspool Was There?

Artists Are The Monks Of The Bourgeois State.

Love Has The Faculty Of Making Two Lovers Seem Naked, Not In Each Other's Sight, But In Their Own.

But The Real, Tremendous Truth Is This: Suffering Serves No Purpose Whatever.