Chomskyrabbit's Reviews > Helmet for My Pillow

Helmet for My Pillow by Robert Leckie
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Mar 28, 11

Read from March 26 to 28, 2011

"We were impatient. We were wound up. We could no more relax than we could think. In those days there was not an introspective person among us. We seldom spoke of the war, except as it might relate to ourselves, and never in an abstract way. The ethics of Hitler, the extermination of the Jews, the Yellow Peril - these were matters for the gentlemen of the editorial pages to discuss.
We lived for thrills - not the thrills of the battlefield, but of the speeding auto, the dimly lighted café, the drink racing our blood, the texture of a cheek, the sheen of a silken calf.
Nothing was permitted to last. All had to be fluid; we wanted not actuality, but possibility. We could not be still; always movement, everything changing. We were like shadows fleeing, ever fleeing; the disembodied phantoms of the motion picture screen; condemned men; soul in hell."
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