When the throbbing of war is abroad I try to hold my thumb on the drum head of my soul, to mute the resonance. Of course I am a sounding board: shivers of hatred and horror come from my soul, and I blame everyone I already blamed, only more so. It goes on, and on, war leaping from soul to soul like a wildfire leaping from tree to tree. Nobody is free. The fire is implacable. War is inevitable. It is larger, stronger, older than we are: it has its own purposes.
We will never be free of it, never, not in ten thousand years. But this, at least: I will never again, in deliberate word, thought, or deed, give my consent to it. Swept along I will be, I and my children and their children's children. We will be hounded across ruined landscapes by war after war after war. But I will never say: this is my war. This is my fight. These are the people who matter, and these are the people who do not; these are the people who deserve mercy, and these are the people who deserve cruelty. I know that war is not done with me, but I am done with war.