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He had illuminated the heartbreaking cruelty of war: When men who fight become nothing, only packages of bones and blood deposited in the earth with no clarion call to memory, those they love are left without a way to make such devastating loss hold meaning.
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Patricia O'Brien |
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The women who went to the field, you say... A few names were writ, and by chance live to-day; But's a perishing record fast fading away, Of those we recall, there are scarcely a score... And what would they do if war came again?... They would stand with you now, as they stood with you then, The nurses, consolers, and saviors of men.
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Patricia O'Brien |
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I was seeing what a writer can do with the tatters of truth, the unfinished stories that give us no rest.
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Patricia O'Brien |
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I continued up the stairs, this time on wings, suspecting for the first time that Louisa's book might outlive us all.
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Patricia O'Brien |
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She had joined that sad sisterhood called disappointed women; a larger class than many deem it to be, though there are few of us who have not seen members of it. Unhappy wives; mistaken or forsaken lovers; meek souls, who make life a long penance for the sins of others; gifted creatures kindled into fitful brilliancy by some inner fire that consumes but cannot warm. These are the women who fly to convents, write bitter books, sing songs ful..
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Patricia O'Brien |