Orson Scott Card Quotes

It needs but one foe to breed a war, and those who have not swords can still die upon them.

War is death's feast.

When war begins, then hell openeth.

At war a Russian man puts on a white shirt. He may live in sin, but he dies like a saint.

This is what war does. Right here, in my hands. This is war.

War was the ultimate chaos, a pounding, soul-destroying snarl, ending in blown-apart men lying unburied on the cold earth. There was nothing more cosmically chaotic than war.

The lamp of war is kindled here, not to be extinguished but by torrents of blood.

My subject is war, and the pity of war.

A hospital alone shows what war is.

War is a fundamental aspect of human existence. It's good to know what war entails and what the human sacrifice is.

I couldn't stand the idea of bloodshed, casualties.

In my dreams I hear again the crash of guns, the rattle of musketry, the strange, mournful mutter of the battlefield.

The ground was strewn with the dead, the dying, and the wounded—here lay one man with his leg shot off, there another with a wound in his head, another with an arm shot off, and hundreds wounded in nearly all the various parts of the body.

On the bastion and entrenchments white flags have been placed, the lowering valley is full of dead bodies, and the beautiful sun descends from the transparent sky to the undulating blue sea, which sparkles under the golden rays of the sun. Thousands of people crowd together, look at, speak to, and smile at each other. And these people, who are Christians, confessing one great law of love and self-sacrifice, looking at what they have done, do not suddenly fall with repentance on their knees before Him who has given them life, who has placed in the soul of each, together with the fear of death, the love of the good and beautiful. They do not embrace like brothers with tears of joy and happiness. No! The white flags are lowered, and again whistle the instruments of death and suffering, again flows innocent blood, and groans and curses are heard

Wars ruin armies.

War,--the trade of barbarians!

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

War tears, rends. War rips open, eviscerates. War scorches. War dismembers. War ruins.

War is life multiplied by some number that no one has ever heard of.

The brazen throat of war.

War is hell, but that's not the half of it, because war is also mystery and terror and adventure and courage and discovery and holiness and pity and despair and longing and love. War is nasty; war is fun. War is thrilling; war is drudgery. War makes you a man; war makes you dead.

War, at the best, is terrible, and this war of ours, in its magnitude and in its duration, is one of the most terrible.

War is murder writ large.

War is the father and king of all.