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more men are in love with war than ever get a chance to fight one, and that more guns are bought to satisfy this love than for a pardonable purpose.
Stumbling on my last year’s diary, I began flipping through it, thinking how much more of life we live than we remember.
the memorial came down with it, which strikes me as an appropriate comment on the fickleness of human constancy.
proving there is no reward for love except the experience of loving, and nothing to be learned by it except humility.
