"I think of myself, of all that I am. Myself, my home, my hours; the past, and the future, β it was going to be like the past! And at that moment I feel, weeping within me and dragging itself from some little bygone trifle, a new and tragical sorrow in dying, a hunger to be warm once more in the rain and the cold: to enclose myself in myself in spite of space, to hold myself back, to live."
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Henri Barbusse
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