…you find yourself studying the fine colors on the river, you feel wonder and awe at the setting of the sun, and you are filled with a hard, aching love for how the world could be and always should be, but now is not.
He believed in mission. But . . . he did not believe in it as an intellectual imperative, or even as a professional standard. Mission . . . was an abstract notion that took meaning in concrete situations.
You hate it, yes, but your eyes do not. Like a killer forest fire, like cancer under a microscope, any battle or bombing raid or artillery barrage has the aesthetic purity of absolute moral indifference-a powerful, implacable beauty-and a true war story will tell the truth about this, though the truth is ugly. To
What happened, and what might have happened?
If you don’t care for obscenity, you don’t care for the truth.
But this too is true: stories save us.
Linda was nine then, as I was, but we were in love…it had all the shadings and complexities of mature adult love and maybe more, because there were not yet words for it, and because it was not yet fixed to comparisons or chronologies or the ways by which adults measure such things…I just loved her. Even then, at nine years old, I wanted to live inside her body. I wanted to melt into her bones — that kind of love.
Peace never bragged. If you didn’t look for it, it wasn’t there.
that you don’t make war without knowing why.
Stories are for eternity, when memory is erased, when there is nothing to remember except the story.