There Is Only One Pleasure-that Of Being

When A Man Mourns For Someone Who Has Played Him False, It Is Not For Love Of Her, But For His Own Humiliation At Not Having Deserved Her Trust.

There Is Mercy For Everyone, Except Those Who Are Bored With Life.

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.

It Is Not The Actual Enjoyment Of Pleasure That We Desire. What We Want Is To Test The Futility Of That Pleasure, So As To Be No Longer Obsessed By It.

The Man Who Cannot Live With Charity, Sharing Other Men's Pain, Is Punished By Feeling His Own With Intolerable Anguish.