ETEXT editor’s bookmarks: 

     An hour of rest between two ordeals, a smile between two sobs
     Anonymous, that velvet mask of scandal-mongers
     At every step the reality splashes you with mud
     Bullets are not necessarily on the side of the right
     Does one ever forget? 
     History is written, not made. 
     “I might forgive,” said Andras; “but I could not forget”
     If well-informed people are to be believe
     Insanity is, perhaps, simply the ideal realized
     It is so good to know nothing, nothing, nothing
     Let the dead past bury its dead! 
     Man who expects nothing of life except its ending
     Not only his last love, but his only love
     Pessimism of to-day sneering at his confidence of yesterday
     Sufferer becomes, as it were, enamored of his own agony
     Taken the times as they are
     Unable to speak, for each word would have been a sob
     What matters it how much we suffer
     Why should I read the newspapers? 
     Willingly seek a new sorrow

     ETEXT editor’s bookmarks for the entire set: 

     A man’s life belongs to his duty, and not to his happiness
     All defeats have their geneses
     An hour of rest between two ordeals, a smile between two sobs
     Anonymous, that velvet mask of scandal-mongers
     At every step the reality splashes you with mud
     Bullets are not necessarily on the side of the right
     Does one ever forget? 
     Foreigners are more Parisian than the Parisians themselves
     History is written, not made. 
     “I might forgive,” said Andras; “but I could not forget”
     If well-informed people are to be believe
     Insanity is, perhaps, simply the ideal realized
     It is so good to know nothing, nothing, nothing
     Let the dead past bury its dead! 
     Life is a tempest
     Man who expects nothing of life except its ending
     Nervous natures, as prompt to hope as to despair
     No answer to make to one who has no right to question me
     Not only his last love, but his only love
     Nothing ever astonishes me
     One of those beings who die, as they have lived, children
     Pessimism of to-day sneering at his confidence of yesterday
     Playing checkers, that mimic warfare of old men
     Poverty brings wrinkles
     Sufferer becomes, as it were, enamored of his own agony
     Superstition which forbids one to proclaim his happiness
     Taken the times as they are
     The Hungarian was created on horseback
     There were too many discussions, and not enough action
     Unable to speak, for each word would have been a sob
     What matters it how much we suffer
     Why should I read the newspapers? 
     Willingly seek a new sorrow
     Would not be astonished at anything
     You suffer?  Is fate so just as that