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

[Y]ou can tell a true war story by its absolute and uncompromising allegiance to obscenity and evil.

I want you to feel what I felt. I want you to know why story-truth is truer sometimes than happening-truth.

A lot like yesterday, a lot like never.

Inside I feel much like a 12-year-old or a 17-year-old who knows big words.

They carried all they could bear, and then some, including a silent awe for the terrible power of the things they carried.

In the attic, a warhead no doubt burns. Everything is combustible. Faith burns. Trust burns. Everything burns to nothing and even nothing burns. . . . And when there is nothing, there is nothing worth dying for and when there is nothing worth dying for, there is only nothing.