War with all its glorification of brute force is essentially a degrading thing.

You cannot stop big wars if you carry on little wars yourselves.

War is a poor chisel to carve out tomorrows.

In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row.

After a war life catches desperately at passing hints of normalcy like vines entwining a hollow twig.

We have to go along a road covered with blood. We have no other alternative. For us it is a matter of life or death, a matter of living or existing. We have to be ready to face the challenges that await us.

As water has no constant form, there are in war no constant conditions.

Blue is the smoke of wrar, white the bones of men.

The art of war is like the art of the courtesan- indeed, they might be called sisters, since both are the slaves of desperation.

A just fear of an imminent danger, though there be no blow given, is a lawful cause of war.