I try to be as ruthless as possible. I ask myself of each sentence, "Is it clear? Is it true? Does it feel good?" And if it's not, then I rewrite it.

The colors of the underwater rock [are] as pale and delicate as those in the wardrobe of an 18th-century marchioness.

They fought on with a devotion which would puzzle the generation of the 1980s. More surprising, in many instances it would have baffled the men they themselves were before Pearl Harbor. Among MacArthur's ardent infantrymen were cooks, mechanics, pilots whose planes had been shot down, seamen whose ships had been sunk, and some civilian volunteers.

Actors who have tried to play Churchill and MacArthur have failed abysmally because each of those men was a great actor playing himself.

But there are no loners. No man lives in a void. His every act is conditioned by his time and his society.

One strange feeling, which I remember clearly, was a powerful link with the slain, particularly those that had fallen within the past hour or two. There was so much death around that life seemed almost indecent. Some men's uniforms were soaked with gobs of blood. The ground was sodden with it. I killed, too.

An Edwardian lady in full dress was a wonder to behold, and her preparations for viewing were awesome.