The summer of 1943 at Exeter was as happy a time as I ever had in my life.

As I walked briskly out the road the wind knifed at my face, but this sun caressed the back of my neck.

As I said, this was my sarcastic summer. It was only long after that I recognized sarcasm as the protest of people who are weak.

Nothing endures. Not a tree. Not love. Not even death by violence.

We are all born equally far from the sun.

I never killed anybody and I never developed an intense level of hatred for the enemy. Because my war ended before I ever put on a uniform; I was on active duty all my time at school; I killed my enemy there.

Sarcasm... the protest of those who are weak.