I know nothing of them except that they are prisoners, and that is what disturbs me. Their life is nameless and guiltless; if I knew more about them—what their names are, how they live, what they expect, what weighs upon them—then my dismay would have a purpose and could become compassion. But now the only thing that I can sense behind those faces is the pain of the living creature, the terrible melancholy of life, and the mercilessness of mankind.
