If he (George Keenan)felt on occasion more than a little uncomfortable when being listened to, then he was truly unhappy when not being listened to.
The truth posed a great dilemma for a man who always had to be right, and yet, for all his grandeur, was often wrong.
Most commanders wanted as many good sources of information as possible. MacArthur was focused on limiting and controlling his sources of intelligence.
One thing I have learned is that the people who label you are usually the ones who know the least about who you really are and they have never made the effort to learn different.
He hated to think of his own life stretching ahead of him that way, a long succession of days and nights that were fine - not good, not bad, not great, not lousy, not exciting, not anything.
The world of fundamental religion does not recognize even the slightest variation in meaning should this meaning fall outside its own definition of truth.
Skin color doesn't make you different,' Melody said. 'We're all the same on the inside.' 'The only people who ever say that,' Raymon replied, 'are white.
Skin color doesn't make you different," Melody said. "We're all the same on the inside." The only people who ever say that," Raymond replied, "are white.
His view of war - and he had seen a great deal of it - was that a general made as many blunders as he fought battles, but, by the grace of the gods, the opposing generals' blunders were sometimes worse.
Advances in medicine and agriculture have saved vastly more lives than have been lost in all the wars in history.
How many hopes and dreams are trapped within these bones? How many wonders lie never to be discovered? This is what war is. Desolation, despair and loss. There are no victors.
We are, all of us, crippled and twisted. Most of us strive desperately to keep our grotesqueries out of sight and mind. Our suffering is transformed by an alchemy of the soul into addiction, ulcers, strokes, hatred, even war.
The brave men and women, who serve their country and as a result, live constantly with the war inside them, exist in a world of chaos. But the turmoil they experience isn’t who they are; the PTSD invades their minds and bodies.
Every man engaged in war tells himself he can alter what has been written, that it is he, not God, who is the maker of destiny, free to change what is meant to be.
That's the thing about being a victim; you start to think it'll happen to you on a regular basis. It's living with the reality of your own vulnerability, and it sucks.
I am no coward sir! I shall stand and fight!" "Well, I am," said Sal. "So can we go... please?
After all, what more does a true genius want? The mind itself is the palace where all the real treasures, the works of art, the indulgences exist.
Part of the terrible irony of war is that it enlists the best in human nature for purposes of mutual destruction.
Because if they grow up holding on to such terrible feelings, it could lead to another war come time in the future when the fate of the country is in their hands.
Life moved in circles. Such was the path. What came would come again, breath to breath, until each riddled out the truth within. War was a path to the next, as sure as any, but lies gained nothing.
So as near as I could tell the end of the world began roughly about the time that Billy Carver’s butt rang about halfway through the War of 1812.
