Parents rarely let go of their children, so children let go of them. They move on. They move away. The moments that used to define themóa motherís approval, a fatherís nodóare covered by moments of their own accomplishments. It is not until much later, as the skin sags and the heart weakens, that children understand; their stories, and all their accomplishments, sit atop the stories of their mothers and fathers, stones upon stones, beneath the waters of their lives
It might have seemed ridiculous to anyone watching, this white-haired maintenance worker, all alone, making like an airplane. But the running boy is inside every man, no matter how old he gets
Young men are all very well in their place, but it doesnít do to drag them into everything, does it?
Thatís the worst of growing up, and Iím beginning to realize it.† The things you wanted so much when you were a child donít seem half so wonderful to you when you get them
But there are years and years in which we shall still be young.
My Madame (in my billet) gives me coffee and bread and butter (of the best) at 7, and there is a ration tin of jam, and I have acquired a pot of honey.
They were nearly all shrapnel shell wounds--more ghastly than anything I have ever seen or smelt.
It is a fortnight to-morrow since we mobilised, and we have had no work yet except our own fatigue duty in the Convent; it was our turn this morning, and I scrubbed the lavatories out with creoseol.
To young women delicately brought up in fastidious homes, it was a perturbing demonstration of life as lived in the publicity of the slums.
For me, as for all the world, the War was a tragedy and a vast stupidity, a waste of youth and of time; it betrayed my faith, mocked my love, and irremediably spoilt my career.