The past is a palimpsest. Early memories are always obscured by accumulations of later knowledge.

A society that devours its own young deserves no automatic or unquestioning allegiance.

Culturally, the First World War is the war that stands in for other wars.

Murder is only killing in the wrong place.

Cut a chrysalis open, and you will find a rotting caterpillar. What you will never find is that mythical creature, half caterpillar, half butterfly, a fit emblem for the human soul, for those whose cast of mind leads them to seek such emblems. No, the process of transformation consists almost entirely of decay.

Another person's life, observed from the outside, always has a shape and definition that one's own life lacks.

Sometimes, in the trenches, you get the sense of something, ancient. One trench we held, it had skulls in the side, embedded, like mushrooms. It was actually easier to believe they were men from Marlborough's army, than to think they'd been alive a year ago. It was as if all the other wars had distilled themselves into this war, and that made it something you almost can't challenge. It's like a very deep voice, saying; 'Run along, little man, be glad you've survived