During my three years in Vietnam, I certainly heard plenty of last words by dying American footsoldiers. Not one of them, however, had illusions that he had somehow accomplished something worthwhile in the process of making the Supreme Sacrifice.

I wish we had all been born birds instead.

In an unmoored life like mine, sleep and hunger and work arrange themselves to suit themselves, without consulting me.

His response was to fight it with the only weapons at hand—passive resistance and open displays of contempt.

The big trouble with dumb bastards is that they are too dumb to believe there is such a thing as being smart.

People who were so good. There were angels.

I saw a huge steam roller, It blotted out the sun. The people all lay down, lay down; They did not try to run. My love and I, we looked amazed Upon the gory mystery. "Lie down, lie down!" the people cried. "The great machine is history!" My love and I, we ran away, The engine did not find us. We ran up to a mountain top, Left history far behind us. Perhaps we should have stayed and died, But somehow we don't think so. We went to see where history'd been, And my, the dead did stink so.