Christopher Ruocchio

The world’s soft the way the ocean is. Ask any
sailor what I mean. But even when it is at its most violent, Hadrian . . . focus on the beauty of it.

The fool believes the iniquities of the world are the fault of other men. Gibson’s voice, dry as old manuscript pages, had never been more clear. The truly wise try to change themselves, which is the more difficult and less grand task.

When we think of War and her atrocities, we imagine that the unforgivable is prosecuted on the battlefield, in the heat and fire. It is not. Atrocity is writ by quiet men in council chambers over crystal glasses of cool water. Strange little men with ashes in their hearts. Sans passion, sans hope . . . sans everything. Everything but fear. For themselves, for their own lives, for some imagined future

I make no excuses, no denials, no apologies for what I have done. I know what I am

Sad is like a big ocean, and you can’t breathe deep down. You can float on it, you can swim a little, but be careful. Grief is
drowning. Grief is deep water.

There are two sorts of men. One hears an order from his better and obeys. The other sees order in himself and obeys that. All men obey something, even if it is only themselves

Were I still the boy I’d been, I would have said she owed me for my mercy. But mercy that expects repayment is no mercy at all, nor is a friendship truly a friendship that stands on debt and gratitude.

Most of this shrapnel is carried in the hearts and souls of those who visited that strange country we call battle.

Women are ever the judges of men, our jury and, though their hands seldom grasp the knife, our executioners.

Who must stand when those whose duty is standing have gone?

Those who can.