“If the people raise a great howl against my barbarity and cruelty.”

In our Country… one class of men makes war and leaves another to fight it out.

There is many a boy here today who looks on war as all glory, but, boys, it is all hell.

If forced to choose between the penitentiary and the White House for four years, I would say the penitentiary, thank you.

War is hell.

A battery of field artillery is worth a thousand muskets.

I intend to make Georgia howl.

I beg to present you as a Christmas gift the city of Savannah.

War is at its best barbarism.

I would make this war as severe as possible, and show no symptoms of tiring till the South begs for mercy.

The better classes are tired of the insane howling of the lower strata and they mean to stop them.

I know I had no hand in making this war, and I know I will make more sacrifices today than any of you to secure peace.

It’s a disagreeable thing to be whipped.

War is too serious a matter to leave to soldiers.

He belonged to that army known as invincible in peace, invisible in war.

This war differs from other wars, in this particular. We are not fighting armies but a hostile people, and must make old and young, rich and poor, feel the hard hand of war.

Every attempt to make war easy and safe will result in humiliation and disaster.

The world is in a constant conspiracy against the brave.

It is as useless to fight against the interpretations of ignorance as to whip the fog.

Against individualism, the Fascist conception is for the State… Liberalism denied the State in the interests of the particular individual; Fascism reaffirms the State as the true reality of the individual.

The aims of life are the best defense against death.

A snowy, moonlit peak, with its single star, soaring up to the passionate blue; or against the flames of sunset, an old yew-tree standing dark guardian of some fiery secret.

I am against discrimination of any kind, but if I make snap judgments, no matter who it’s towards, aren’t I committing the same sin as someone who profiles?

The creative act arises out of the struggle of human beings with and against that which limits them.

I watch her blond head until it disappears around the bend, and I feel bare, like there’s nothing left to protect me against pain. Her absence stings worst of all.