“I enjoy sharing my books as I do my friends, asking only that you treat them well and see them safely home.”

“I am deeply sensitive to the spell of nationalism. I can play about thirty Bohemian folk songs ... on my mouth-organ. My oldest friend, who is Czech and a patriot, cannot bear to hear me play them because he says I do it in such a schmalzy way, 'crying into the mouth organ'. I do not think I could have written the book on nationalism which I did write, were I not capable of crying, with the help of a little alcohol, over folk songs, which happen to be my favourite form of music.”

“Do you truly feel that she is worth your wings?”He smiled. “What good are my wings, friend, when I can hold theworld in my arms?”

“All my life I've looked at words as though I were seeing them for the first time.”

“The bulls are my best friends."I translated to Brett."You kill your friends?" she asked."Always," he said in English, and laughed. "So they don't kill me.”

“I have watched them all day and they are the same men that we are. I believe that I could walk up to the mill and knock on the door and I would be welcome except that they have orders to challenge all travelers and ask to see their papers. It is only orders that come between us. Those men are not fascists. I call them so, but they are not. They are poor men as we are. They should never be fighting against us and I do not like to think of the killing.”

“Don’t you like them?” She ran her fingers across the waistband ofher panties.“I’m afraid I can’t appreciate them in such low lighting. You will have to take them off and let me have a better look.” He tried to smile innocently. She rested her hands on her hips and shook her head slowly.“Very well. I will have to do it for you.” He took a step closer to her.”