To indulge it is to breed it. To punish it is to feed it. Madness knows no bridle but the knife.

To be a student required a peculiar kind of capitulation, a willingness not simply to do as one is told, but to surrendor the movements of one's soul to the unknown complexities of another's. A willingness, not simply to be moved, but to be remade.

You know nothing of war. War is dark. Black as pitch. It is not a God. It does not laugh or weep. It rewards neither skill nor daring. It is not a trial of souls, not the measure of wills. Even less is it a tool, a means to some womanish end. It is merely the place where the iron bones of the earth meet the hollow bones of men and break them.

Something ... made him feel small, not in the way of orphans or beggars or children, but in a good way. In the way of souls.

To indulge it is to breed it. To punish it is to feed it. Madness knows no bridle but the knife.

Darkness shields as much as it threatens.

History. Language. Passion. Custom. All these things determine what men say, think, and do. These are the hidden puppet-strings from which all men hang.