The past is not the present: pretending it is corrupts art and thus both rots the mind and shrivels the imagination and conscience.
Chickenshit refers to behavior that makes military life worse than it need be: petty harassment of the weak by the strong; open scrimmage for power and authority and prestige; sadism thinly disguised as necessary discipline; a constant 'paying off of old scores'; and insistence on the letter rather than the spirit of ordinances.
Today the Somme is a peaceful but sullen place, unforgetting and unforgiving. ... To wander now over the fields destined to extrude their rusty metal fragments for centuries is to appreciate in the most intimate way the permanent reverberations of July, 1916. When the air is damp you can smell rusted iron everywhere, even though you see only wheat and barley.
Understanding the past requires pretending that you don't know the present.
The simple is carefully shunned by those who labour to seem what they would be.
There is no Apocalypse.
Irony is the attendant of hope and the fuel of hope is innocence.
To get home you had to end the war. To end the war was the reason you fought it. The only reason.
Most people who seek attention and regard by announcing that they're writing a novel are actually so devoid of narrative talent that they can't hold the attention of a dinner table for thirty seconds, even with a dirty joke.
Travel sharpens the senses. Abroad one feels, sees and hears things in an abnormal way.
So many bright futures consigned to the ashes of the past.So many dreams lost in the madness that had engulfed us.Except for a few widely scattered shouts of joy,the survivors of the abyss sat hollow-eyed and silent, trying to comprehend a world without war.
All the pathos and irony of leaving one’s youth behind is thus implicit in every joyous moment of travel
Every war is ironic because every war is worse than expected. Every war constitutes an irony of situation because its means are so melodramatically disproportionate to its presumed ends.
And the ideal travel writer is consumed not just with a will to know. He is also moved by a powerful will to teach.
The wise traveler learns not to repeat successes but tries new places all the time.
Travel at its truest is thus an ironic experience.
If the guidebook used to be critical, today it seems largely a celebratory adjunct to the publicity operations of hotels, resorts, and even countries.
Things without defense: insects, kittens, small boys.
If the term discussion has always seemed to me to imply mild warnings of wasted time, workshop sets off a clangorous alarm.
A guide book is addressed to those who plan to follow the traveler, doing what he has done, but more selectively. A travel book, in its purest, is addressed to those who do not plan to follow the traveler at all, but who require the exotic or comic anomalies, wonders and scandals of the literary form romance which their own place or time cannot entirely supply.
If truth is the main casualty in war, ambiguity is another.
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