Shrines of Gaiety

by Kate Atkinson

Suffering in silence was for saints, not soldiers, in Gwendolen’s opinion. Where was the virtue in a quiet death—slipping below the waves, sinking into the mud? Or living on, limbless after gas gangrene or with a body flensed of flesh or ripped to ribbons by artillery fire?

Some people were complete in themselves, as if born from the earth or the ocean, like some of the gods. Which was not a compliment. The gods were ruthlessly indifferent to humanity.

And there they must remain, suspended between coming and going for ever.