The Summer Of 1943 At Exeter Was

So The More Things Remained The Same, The More They Changed After All. Nothing Endures. Not Love, Not A Tree, Not Even A Death By Violence.

Stranded In This Mill Town Railroad Yard While The Whole World Was Converging Elsewhere, We Seemed To Be Nothing But Children Playing Among Heroic Men.

It Seemed Clear That Wars Were Not Made By Generations And Their Special Stupidities, But That Wars Were Made Instead By Something Ignorant In The Human Heart

Everyone Has A Moment In History Which Belongs Particularly To Him.

All Of Them, All Except Phineas, Constructed At Infinite Cost To Themselves These Maginot Lines Against This Enemy They Thought They Saw Across The Frontier, This Enemy Who Never Attacked That Way-if He Ever Attacked At All; If He Was Indeed The Enemy.