Who supports the troops? The troops support the troops.

I wasn't writing home. I wasn't writing a death letter, either. I was writing a death journal, a piece of fiction meant for my family and my fiancee, Sara.

Most likely, they were writing the same type of macho bullshit that I wrote, trying to sound tough with their words in case words were all that made it home.

Unfortunately, just like bullets, you can never get words back once they have been sent out into the world.

War becomes a part of you. It is a feeling just as much as an experience. If you can’t feel it, you weren’t paying attention. And if you weren’t paying attention, you are probably dead anyway.

I was enjoying the great human trophy hunt and, looking back, it scares the hell out of me

I wanted to see my family, but didn't want to leave the other guys. The people waiting for us were strangers, even though I knew every last one of them.

No matter what the reason, the ways I tried to justify the situation, the second-guessing that lingered, nothing could change the fact that people stopped existing because of me.

I wanted people to know that we fired rounds into moving trucks and open windows to survive, not for anyone else’s freedom. Not for the Democrats. Not for Republicans. Just to survive.

Together, we overcome the drought of happiness and goodness, by seeing our glasses half full and helping fill others’ glasses back up with love.

The discoveries of my life that were of greatest significance (1) When I discovered love, (2) When I discovered faith and (3) When I discovered one cannot be without the other.

These kisses hurt--not from roughness, but because she could feel all his pain.

American poetry to me is a sort of relentless, nonstop sermon on human autonomy.

I believe that in judging our actions we are more severe than professional judges. We judge not only our actions, but our thoughts, our intentions, our secret curses, our hidden hate.

Photography speaks a universal language that does not need translation, and with an immediacy that the written word lacks. It freezes a moment in time, leaving an indelible image.

My early reviews were so bad that I decided I didn't want to read them again.

You cannot have a perfect mind. You can have a perfect heart.

I pretty much just talk to and about men the way men talk to and about women.

I have a passion for the name of "Mary," For once it was a magic sound to me, And still it half calls up the realms of fairy, Where I beheld what never was to be.