Quotes About War

The time has come, The claws are passed. An old owl rests, A die's been cast. It is a war for heart, Gizzard and mind. The weapons they wield, More deadly than mine. A blade draws blood, a fire burns. But with the flecks, a mind unlearns. A soul unhinges, And then a gizzard quakes and cringes. Senses dull, Reason scatters. The heart grows numb, An owl shatters. But these six owls are strong and bold, And their story has not yet been told.

There was nothing particularly glorious or heroic about war, Soren realized. It was really nothing more than a grubby, vile task to vanquish a foul tyranny led by his own brother.

Strong enough for any battlefield, any war, but tempered with compassion and wisdom so that he knows the richness of restraint, the fruitfulness of peace, and the grace of mercy.

There's no more education, no more culture - if culture depends on a commonly understood history - and perhaps no more middle class in the United States. There's War.

That's what war was. A great motion and then a great stillness in which the winner crouches and the loser lies facing the sky.

They had engaged in what could not be called treatment or even discussion, but open combat, the two of them a microcosm of the great war raging in the far distance: one side that desired autonomy, and the other that took independence as a sign of madness.

Instead he felt only love. And that was the miracle. The surge in hatred since the war began had created more love around it. It was indomitable, mad, and everlasting, scattered through the rich and the poor, deep and calm in the Quakers, hot and fierce in the mothers, faithful in the warriors, wistful in the pets, seeping its way into mercy and atrocity, destroying things, rebuilding them.

That's what war was. A great motion and then a great stillness in which the winner crouches and the loser lies facing the sky.

In Paris, I felt connected to history in a way I did not in America. Elderly men I passed in the Latin Quarter, with empty sleeves pinned to the shoulder of their jackets, reminded me of the not-so-distant war.

War is only a cowardly escape from the problems of peace. Thomas Mann, German-American author (1875–1955)

What he means here is that he had thought his sons would die in the war and had readied himself for the loss. His faith in preparation is central: Freud's barely submerged premise is that death is something to be mastered, something that one prepares for or practices. "If you would endure life," he wrote in one of his essays, "be prepared for death.

When both she and I had to deal with our respective demons, my sister saw the darkness as being within and part of herself, the family and the world. I, instead, saw it as a stranger; however lodged within my mind and soul the darkness became, it almost always seemed an outside force that was at war with my natural self.

The endless questioning finally ended. My psychiatrist looked at me, there was no uncertainty in his voice. "Manic-depressive illness." I admired his bluntness. I wished him locusts on his lands and a pox upon his house. Silent, unbelievable rage. I smiled pleasantly. He smiled back. The war had just begun.

It is well that war is so terrible: we should grow too fond of it.

Where once we fought for land and God, we now fought to avenge fallen comrades, themselves slaughtered in vengeance. Where could it end? Babes growing to men knowing only days of war.

The war, ghastly as it was, represented no more than "an awkward window in Man's evolution" when for a few years our technical progress had run ahead of our organisational capacities.

When I look back to this period, and remember it was less than twenty years from the end of a world war in which the Japanese had been their bitter enemies, I'm amazed by the openness and instinctive generosity with which our family was accepted by this ordinary English community.

She'd rather go to war with a man than to ever fight for a boy.

Is that…?" I nodded. I tried to explain, but the words wouldn't come. I handed him the paper. He finished reading it. "That's not…?" he murmured when he finished. "How…?" "Okay, what gives?" Corey said. "Personally, I wouldn't care if the U.S. declared war on Canada. Doesn't seem relevant under the circumstances.

In every country, those who were against war had been overruled. The Austrians had attacked Serbia when they might have held back; the Russians had mobilized instead of negotiating; the Germans had refused to attend an international conference to settle the issue; the French had been offered the chance to remain neutral and had spurned it; and now the British were about to join in when they might easily have remained on the sidelines.

Marvelous, isn't it, how these Germans can shoot back at us even when they're fucking dead.

Men were the only animals that slaughtered their own kind by the million, and turned the landscape into a waste of shell craters and barbed wire. Perhaps the human race would wipe itself out completely, and leave the world to the birds and trees, Walter thought apocalyptically. Perhaps that would be for the best.

After the Battle of Midway it was clear that the Pacific war would be won by planes launched from ships. Both Japan and the United States began crash programs to build aircraft carriers as fast as possible. During 1943 and 1944, Japan produced seven of these huge, costly vessels. In the same period, the United States produced ninety.

War was grueling and oppressive and frustrating and uncomfortable, but one had friends. If peace brought back loneliness, Godliman thought he would not be able to live with it.