Everything was such a damned nice idea when it was an idea.

Certain blood was being shed for uncertain reasons.

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

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

Did I choose this life of illusion? Don't be mad. My bed was made, I just lied in it.

They carried all the emotional baggage of men who might die. Grief, terror, love, longing--these were intangibles, but the intangibles had their own mass and specific gravity, they had tangible weight. They carried shameful memories. They carried the common secret of cowardice.... Men killed, and died, because they were embarrassed not to.

you're never more alive than when you're almost dead.