Nationalism Is Power Hunger Tempered By Self-deception.

There Is Only One Way To Make Money At Writing, And That Is To Marry A Publisher's Daughter.

Freedom Of The Press, If It Means Anything At All, Means The Freedom To Criticize And Oppose

History Has Stopped. Nothing Exists Except An Endless Present In Which The Party Is Always Right.

You Were The Dead; Theirs Was The Future.

The Men Who Were Well Enough To Stand Had Moved Across The Carriage To Cheer The Italians As They Went Past. A Crutch Waved Out Of The Window; Bandaged Forearms Made The Red Salute. It Was Like An Allegorical Picture Of War; The Trainload Of Fresh Men Gliding Proudly Up The Line, The Maimed Men Sliding Slowly Down, And All The While The Guns On The Open Trucks Making One's Heart Leap As Guns Always Do, And Reviving That Pernicious Feeling, So Difficult To Get Rid Of, That War *is* Glorious After All.