All the pathos and irony of leaving one’s youth behind is thus implicit in every joyous moment of travel

The more violent the body contact of the sports you watch, the lower the class.

So many bright futures consigned to the ashes of the past.So many dreams lost in the madness that had engulfed us.Except for a few widely scattered shouts of joy,the survivors of the abyss sat hollow-eyed and silent, trying to comprehend a world without war.

Today the Somme is a peaceful but sullen place, unforgetting and unforgiving. ... To wander now over the fields destined to extrude their rusty metal fragments for centuries is to appreciate in the most intimate way the permanent reverberations of July, 1916. When the air is damp you can smell rusted iron everywhere, even though you see only wheat and barley.

Travel sharpens the senses. Abroad one feels, sees and hears things in an abnormal way.

Every war is ironic because every war is worse than expected. Every war constitutes an irony of situation because its means are so melodramatically disproportionate to its presumed ends.

Chickenshit can be recognized instantly because it never has anything to do with winning the war.