Even Through The Shut Window

The Words Kept Coming Back To Him, Statement Of A Mystical Truth And A Palpable Absurdity.

The Consequences Of Every Act Are Included In The Act Itself.

The Essential Act Of War Is Destruction, Not Necessarily Of Human Lives, But Of The Products Of Human Labor.

And It Is A Great Thing To Die In Your Own Bed, Though It Is Better Still To Die In Your Boots.

A Hideous Ecstasy Of Fear And Vindictiveness, A Desire To Kill, To Torture, To Smash Faces In With A Sledge Hammer, Seemed To Flow Through The Whole Group Of People Like An Electric Current, Turning One Even Against One's Will Into A Grimacing, Screaming Lunatic. And Yet The Rage That One Felt Was An Abstract, Undirected Emotion Which Could Be Switched From One Object To Another Like The Flame Of A Blowlamp.