Why Do You Think That At 67

One Must Wait Until The Evening To See How Splendid The Day Was; One Cannot Judge Life Until Death.

You Start Out Giving Your Hat, Then You Give Your Coat, Then Your Shirt, Then Your Skin And Finally Your Soul.

I Have Tried To Lift France Out Of The Mud. But She Will Return To Her Errors And Vomitings. I Cannot Prevent The French From Being French.

In The Tumult Of Great Events, Solitude Was What I Hoped For. Now It Is What I Love. How Is It Possible To Be Contented With Anything Else When One Has Come Face To Face With History?

I Feel Not A Person But An Instrument Of Destiny.