Nothing Lasts. Not Even A Great Sorrow.

What I Do Not Know And Cannot Even Hope To Understand Before I Die Is Why Human Beings Are Willfully, Coldly, Matter-of-factly Cruel To Each Other ... What Nerve Has Atrophied In The Torturer, Or Worse Is Sensually Moved?

War, For Any Cause, Is Inexcusable. There Is Nothing Which Excuses Us For The Beastly Ingenuity Of Our Wars. Only Fools, Only The Diseased, Think That We Are Served By Killing The Strong Young Men With Machines.

In France, Even Heresy Rapidly Hardens Into Dogma.

Failures To Love Are Irremediable And Irredeemable.

If The Novel Is Dying, I See No Chance That Dismembering It Will Revive It.