Good prose should be transparent, like a window pane.

The object of powder is powder.

The men who were well enough to stand had moved across the carriage to cheer the Italians as they went past. A crutch waved out of the window; bandaged forearms made the Red Salute. It was like an allegorical picture of war; the trainload of fresh men gliding proudly up the line, the maimed men sliding slowly down, and all the while the guns on the open trucks making one's heart leap as guns always do, and reviving that pernicious feeling, so difficult to get rid of, that war *is* glorious after all.

I hate purity, I hate goodness! I don't want virtue to exist anywhere. I want everyone to be corrupt to the bones.

Money writes books, money sells them. Give me not righteousness, O Lord, give me money, only money.

Sooner or later a false belief bumps up against solid reality, usually on a battlefield.

The slovenliness of our language makes it easier for us to have foolish thoughts.