Water shapes its course according to the nature of the ground over which it flows; the soldier works out his victory in relation to the foe whom he is facing.

Knowing the enemy enables you to take the offensive$$$ knowing yourself enables you to stand on the defensive.

Convince your enemy that he will gain very little by attacking you; this will diminish his enthusiasm.

The wise warrior avoids the battle.

Attack him where he is unprepared$$$ appear where you are not expected.

What the ancients called a clever fighter is one who not only wins$$$ but excels in winning with ease.

I actually shivered at the insincerity that gripped me as I spoke these words: their falseness was shameful. I was sure my coolness would return. I'd just been caught with my guard down. But at the moment I was in shambles. Walking along the deck (adopting my old casual swagger)$$$ I jollied up the troops with small talk$$$ put on a frozen grin$$$ and kept murmuring to myself with rhythmic fatuity: You love the marine Corps$$$ it's a terrific war$$$ you love the Marine Corps$$$ it's a terrific war...

I thought there's something to be said for honor in this world where there doesn't seem to be any honor left. I thought that maybe happiness wasn't really anything more than the knowledge of a life well spent$$$ in spite of whatever immediate discomfort you had to undergo$$$ and that if a life well spent meant compromises and conciliations and reconciliations$$$ and suffering at the hands of the person you love$$$ well then better that than live without honor.

When I was first aware that I had been laid low by the disease$$$ I felt a need$$$ among other things$$$ to register a strong protest against the word "depression." Depression$$$ most people know$$$ used to be termed "melancholia$$$" a word which appears in English as the year 1303 and crops up more than once in Chaucer$$$ who in his usage seemed to be aware of its pathological nuances.

I'm not weird$$$ just different from people who aren't different.