Cruel Irony, The Poor Man Tormented With

Without Freedom There Is No Art.

Once One's Up Against It, The Precise Manner Of One's Death Has Obviously Small Importance.

Paneloux Is A Man Of Learning, A Scholar. He Hasn't Come In Contact With Death; That's Why He Can Speak With Such Assurance Of The Truth-with A Capital T. But Every Country Priest Who Visits His Parishioners And Has Heard A Man Gasping For Breath On His Deathbed Thinks As I Do. He'd Try To Relieve Human Suffering Before Trying To Point Out Its Goodness.

Truth, Like Light, Is Blinding. Lies, On The Other Hand, Are A Beautiful Dusk, Which Enhances The Value Of Each Object.

In A World That Has Ceased To Believe In Sin, The Artist Is Responsible For The Preaching.