It is clever the way death reaps and gathers its harvests, but what somber harvests. Whole generations do not fall at once; that would be too sad, too visible. But bit by bit. The meadow is attacked on several sides at the same time. One day, one will go; the other, some time after; one must reflect, glance about oneself to notice the empty spaces, the vast contemporary killing.

Alphonse Daudet

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Poets are people who can still see the world through the eyes of children.
Alphonse Daudet
Distrust the man who smiles before he speaks.
Alphonse Daudet (Tartarin on the Alps, 1885)
Hatred is the anger of the weak.
Alphonse Daudet (Letters from My Mill, 1869)
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