We forget everything. What we remember is not what actually happened, not history, but merely that hackneyed dotted line they have chosen to drive into our memories by incessant hammering.

All history is one continuous pestilence. There is no truth and there is no illusion. There is nowhere to appeal and nowhere to go.

Erano queste le nostre camere della morte. Ci mancava il gas per fare le camere a gas.

History has in different questions laid out some tremendous turnabouts and curves.