The war affects me less than it ought. But I can do no service to anybody by agitating for news or making dole over the slaughter.

Do you know what would hold me together on a battlefield? The sense that I was perpetuating the language in which Keats and the rest of them wrote!

Never fear: Thank Home, and Poetry, and the Force behind both.

My subject is war, and the pity of war.

And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall, By his dead smile I knew we stood in Hell.

Flying is the only active profession I could ever continue with enthusiasm after the War.

Those who, like the beasts, have no such Hope, pass their old age shrouded with an inward gloom.