War is like a fire, Agnes. One man may start it, but it will spread all over. It is not about any one thing in particular.

War was rapidly doing what war did—making ugly everything it touched.

Night's black mantle covers all alike.

You've got mean, Oriel." She sniffs. "It is the war that's done it to you?" "It's all war," she said. "What is?" "I don't know. Everythin. Raisin a family, keepin yer head above water. Life. War is our natural state." "Well, struggle maybe," said Lester. "No, no, it's war.

All is war.

In war everybody is a prisoner.

"If you ever see a war," she says, not looking up from her clipboard, "you'll learn that war only destroys. No one escapes from a war. No one. Not even the survivors."

Everyone's life is a warfare, and that long and various.

War is like a fire. One man may start it, but it will spread all over. It is not about one thing in particular.

All during the Vietnam War, I could feel there was a darkness hanging over the whole world and it lasted for so long.

Let us take some event in the life of humanity. For instance, war. There is a war going on at the present moment. What does it signify? It signifies that several millions of sleeping people are trying to destroy several millions of other sleeping people. They would not do this, of course, if they were to wake up. Everything that takes place is owing to this sleep.

She had to remind herself that war was always this way. Had always been. Cities had been falling under siege since the time there were cities. Mortars had fallen on schools. Soldiers had stormed hospitals. Bombs had set churches and parks and children on fire. Homes had been lost before now.

It was a dramatization of total chaos, a functional definition of confusion, an unchoreographed dance of sad violence. It was war.

War is a soul-shattering experience for the innocent.