The details of the world in which we live are always secondary to the fact that we must live in them.

Writing was always an aspiration, but I'd kept it a secret even from myself.

To understand the world, one’s place in it, is to be always at the risk of drowning.

I understood that 'The Yellow Birds' would be a peculiar representation of the experience of being at war. I intended it to be so.

I had the feeling that if I encountered anyone they would intuit my disgrace and would judge me instantly. Nothing is more isolating than having a particular history. At least that's what I thought. Now I know: all pain is the same. Only the details are different.

The war tried to kill us in the spring. As grass greened the plains of Nineveh and the weather warmed, we patrolled the low-slung hills beyond the cities and towns. We moved over them and through the tall grass on faith, kneading paths into the windswept growth like pioneers. While we slept, the war rubbed its thousand ribs against the ground in prayer.

My personal opinion is that if someone writes honestly about war, it will inherently be anti-war.