It Is Not The Number Of Years

I Can Forgive Alfred Nobel For Having Invented Dynamite, But Only A Fiend In Human Form Could Have Invented The Nobel Prize.

Your Wits Can't Thicken In That Soft Moist Air, On Those White Springy Roads, In Those Misty Rushes And Brown Bogs, On Those Hillsides Of Granite Rocks And Magenta Heather. You've No Such Colours In The Sky, No Such Lure In The Distances, No Such Sadness In The Evenings. Oh The Dreaming! The Dreaming! The Torturing, Heart-scalding, Never Satisfying Dreaming, Dreaming, Dreaming, Dreaming!

My Rank Is The Highest Known In Switzerland: I'm A Free Citizen.

The Man Who Writes About Himself And His Own Time Is The Only Man Who Writes About All People And About All Time.

You Can Always Tell An Old Soldier By The Inside Of His Holsters And Cartridge Boxes. The Young Ones Carry Pistols And Cartridges; The Old Ones, Grub.