Salzburg. . . is a mountain town with a rushing river running right through the center, everything in the rain various shades of green and brown.
Legends are material to be moulded, and not facts to be recorded.
Religions change; beer and wine remain.
Each new generation is a fresh invasion of savages.
Southward, two mighty ranges of the Appalachians shouldered their way into the blue distance like tremendous caravans marching across eternity.
Between the villages of Aubiere and Romagnat in the ancient Province of Auvergne there is an old road that comes suddenly over the top of a high hill. To stand south of this ridge looking up at the highway flowing over the skyline is to receive one of those irrefutable impressions from landscape which requires more than a philosopher to explain. In this case it is undoubtedly, for some reason, one of exalted expectation.
Some of the shells brought my heart into my mouth; lying there waiting for them was intolerable. I was sure I was going to be blown to pieces.
Nations fight against nations, in marriages people fight against each other, children fight against each other. We are in warfare, in a national warfare, and in warfare with each other and with ourselves.
If it isn't a passion, it isn't burning, it isn't on fire, you haven't lived.
We are confronted by another oppressive ideology - one that seeks to export terrorism and extremism all around the globe. America and Europe have suffered one terror attack after another. We're going to get it to stop.
I was benevolent and good; misery made me a fiend. Make me happy, and I shall again be virtuous.