The road to Manderley lay ahead. There was no moon. The sky above our heads was inky black. But the sky on the horizon was not dark at all. It was shot with crimson, like a splash of blood. And the ashes blew towards us with the salt wind from the sea.
I believe there is a theory that men and women emerge finer and stronger after suffering, and that to advance in this or any world we must endure ordeal by fire.
So you see, when war comes to one's village, one's doorstep, it isn't tragic and impersonal any longer. It is just an excuse to vomit private hatred. That is why I am not a great patriot.