War is not two great armies meeting in the clash and frenzy of battle. War is a boy being carried on a stretcher, looking up at God’s blue sky with bewildered eyes that are soon to close; war is a woman carrying a child that has been injured by a shell; war is spirited horses tied in burning buildings and waiting for death; war is the flower of a race, battered, hungry, bleeding, up to its knees in filthy water; war is an old woman burning a candle before the Mater Dolorsa for the son she has given.

I hate those men who would send into war youth to fight and die for them; the pride and cowardice of those old men, making their wars that boys must die.

It is only in his head that man is heroic; in the pit of his stomach he is always a coward.

Well, that was life. It was an old tree, and the old passed on. Probably they did not mind. There came a time when all sap ran slowly, and the peace of age with all things behind it merged easily into the peace of death. The difficult thing was to be young.

What a tragedy it was that the only thing age could offer to youth was its own experience, and that the experiences of others were never profitable.

my family, although it keeps its hair, turns gray early - a business asset but a social handicap.

Every writer knows the terror of an unexpected success. How to carry on? How to repeat it?