I was a coward. I went to the war.

What sticks to memory, often, are those odd little fragments that have no beginning and no end.

He had an opinion of himself, I think, that was too high for his own good. Or maybe it was the reverse. Maybe it was a low opinion that he kept trying to erase.

Each of us, I suppose needs his illusions. Life after death. A maker of planets. A woman to love, a man to hate. Something sacred. But what a waste.

That's what fiction is for. It's for getting at the truth when the truth isn't sufficient for the truth.

Certain blood was being shed for uncertain reasons.

Can the foot soldier teach anything important about war, merely for having been there? I think not. He can tell war stories.