Stop war? Impossible! There is no cure for the world's disease. - Henri Barbusse

Toi dont la douceur est si douce
Qu’elle console l’Inconnu !

The others, one by one, straighten themselves. The storm is falling more heavily on the expanse of flayed and martyred fields. The day is full of night.

Against the window's still pallid sky I see her hair, silvered with a moonlike sheen, and her night-veiled face. Closely I look at the share of sublimity which she bears on it, and I reflect that I am infinitely attached to this woman, that it is not true to say she is of less moment to me because desire no longer throws me on her as it used to do. Is it habit? No, not only that. Everywhere habit exerts its gentle strength, perhaps between us two also. But there is more. There is not only the narrowness of rooms to bring us together. There is more, there is more! So I say to her: "There's you."
"Me?" she says. "I'm nothing."
"Yes, you are everything, you're everything to me."