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Book: Killing Rommel
Quotes of Book: Killing Rommel
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  1. Steven Pressfield _ Killing Rommel

    Colonel L., in whose eyes I was a first-rate Riot Acter or, worse, an intellectual-in his phrase, "someone who reads books"-the most damning appraisal that could be made of a junior lieutenant.
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  2. Steven Pressfield _ Killing Rommel

    Crazy,' says Paddy Mayne, 'is our business.
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  3. Steven Pressfield _ Killing Rommel

    Nor am I "leading" in any way that the military manuals would recognise or commend. I'm just slogging miserably beside the others. But we are one, each giving his all. I catch a second wind, and I feel my brothers-in-arms catch theirs too. By
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  4. Steven Pressfield _ Killing Rommel

    I must carry on-for my mates, for England, for Rose and for our child. The alternative is unthinkable. With this, I understand the perverse logic of war and the true tragedy of armed conflict. The enemy against whom we fight are human beings like ourselves, individuals with whom each of us might have been friends except for the deranged fictions of nation, doctrine, race and religion, and whom now we must murder {as they seek to murder us} in the name of those very same fictions.
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  5. Steven Pressfield _ Killing Rommel

    All genuine epiphanies seem to follow this model: their defining quality is the relinquishment of delusion. The initial fear is that one has lost something. A cherished self-conception must be given up, and one feels diminished by it. This is mistaken, however. A person discovers that he has been made stronger by the jettisoning of this sham and disadvantageous baggage. In fact, he has become more "himself," by aligning his self-concept more closely with fact.
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  6. Steven Pressfield _ Killing Rommel

    Jewish despair arises from want and can be cured by surfeit. Give a penniless Jew fifty quid and he perks right up. Irish despair is different. Nothing relieves Irish despair. The Irishman's complaint lies not with his circumstances, which might be rendered brilliant by labour or luck, but with the injustice of existence itself. Death! How could a benevolent Deity gift us with life, only to set such a cruel term upon it? Irish despair knows no remedy. Money doesn't help. Love fades; fame is fleeting. The only cures are booze and sentiment. That's why the Irish are such noble drunks and glorious poets. No one sings like the Irish or mourns like them. Why? Because they're angels imprisoned in vessels of flesh.
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