I have lived almost fifty years, and I've seen life as it is: pain, misery, hunger,
cruelty beyond belief, I have heard the singing from taverns and moans from the
bundles of filth in the streets. I've been a soldier, and seen my comrades fall in battle,
or die more slowly under the lash in Africa. I've held them in my arms at the final
moment. These were men who saw life as it is, yet they died, despairing - no glory,
no gallant last words, only their eyes filled with confusion, wimpering, questioning.
Why? I do not think they asked why they were dying, but why they had ever lived.

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