Poor is the power of the lead that becomes bullets compared to the power of the hot metal that becomes types.
The appalling thing about war is that it kills all love of truth.
I was always hearing that I was pale and thin and small.
A love for humanity came over me, and watered and fertilised the fields of my inner world which had been lying fallow, and this love of humanity vented itself in a vast compassion.
The Danish glee: the national version of cheerfulness.
The war imbued my tin soldiers with quite a new interest. It was impossible to have boxes enough of them.