War Is Utter Damn Nonsense, A Vast

It's Easy To Forget How Central The French People Are In Everything We Mean When We Say Europe.

This Ain't A War... It's A Goddam Whorehouse.

Love Is Cheap. You Can Buy It Anywhere. Lives Are Cheap. It's Money That's Dear. You Have To Work Days And Sit Up Nights Thinking How To Make Money.

The Only Excuse For A Novelist, Aside From The Entertainment And Vicarious Living His Books Give The People Who Read Them, Is As A Sort Of Second-class Historian Of The Age He Lives In. The "reality" He Missed By Writing About Imaginary People, He Gains By Being Able To Build A Reality More Nearly Out Of His Own Factual Experience Than A Plain Historian Or Biographer Can.

Life Is To Be Used, Not Just Held In The Hand Like A Box Of Bonbons That Nobody Eats.