When The Wound/ No Longer Hurts/ The

Love Is The Desire To Give, Not To Receive, Something. Love Is The Art Of Producing Something With The Other's Talents.

With Drooping Shoulders The Majority Sit Hunched, Their Foreheads Furrowed Like Stony Ground That Has Been Repeatedly Ploughed-up To No Purpose.

Life Is Short And So Is Money.

I Was Called Up In The War And Sent To A Hospital. I Dressed Wounds, Applied Iodine, Gave Enemas, Did Blood Transfusions. If The Doctor Ordered: "brecht, Amputate A Leg!", I Would Reply, "certainly, Your Excellency!", And Cut Off The Leg. If I Was Told, "perform A Trepanning!" I Opened The Man's Skull And Messed About With His Brains. I Saw How They Patched Fellows Up, So As To Cart Them Back To The Front As Quickly As They Could.

He Who Speaks Of Enemies , Himself Is The Enemy.