Writing doesn’t get easier with experience. The more you know, the harder it is to write.

If you don't care for obscenity, you don't care for the truth.

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.

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

In war you lose your sense of the definite, hence your sense of truth itself, and therefore it's safe to say that in a war story nothing is ever absolutely true.

What would you do? Would you jump? Would you feel pity for yourself? Would you think about your family and your childhood and your dreams and all you're leaving behind? Would it hurt? Would it feel like dying? Would you cry, as I did?

The bad stuff never stops happening: it lives in its own dimension, replaying itself over and over.