Saturday, February 9, 2019

Glamorization of War in Cranes Do not weep, maiden, for war is kind, Le Guins The Ones Who Wal :: Comparison Compare Contrast Essays

glamourisation of War in Cranes Do not weep, maiden, for war is kind, Le Guins The Ones Who passing game Away from Omelas, Lovelaces To Lucasta, Going to the Wars and Owens Dulce Et Decorum Est I dream sometimes more or less war. And the fear that follows the war drums. I dreamt once of my junior high teacher, a stocky woman with a passion for the middle ages, whipping me and my fri completes into an soldiery with swords and shields, and then screaming that if we retreat even one step, well lose. If we lose, we die. So I took the burning line of the sword and stood in the mud waiting for war. I feared death, though not so much the closing of life as the violence that would precede it. I feared whatever was waiting in the repulsiveness beyond me. And then my dream shifted and my friends and I were swinging broomsticks in our up the stairs study, facing nothing more threatening than one another. I dont gain my dreams. And I dont unders erythema solared war. My only link to the repeated blood-baths of the early 20th century are books and dreams. I wish I could say they terminate neatly that the characters, when the books closed, folded up their lives and went away and that the phantoms dispersed when I woke up. They dont. War doesnt end neatly either. The Imperial War Museum in London stands as an immense monument to wars the British people cant forget. War has fed into what Jung would call their incorporated unconscious until its as much apart of them as the lungs they draw wind with. I walked down a wide passageway in the root cellar of the Museum, a dim red light illuminating my way. Huge slabs of tan mat hung on the staggered walls. The spread of mat was broken only by the deafening silence of words Only the dead find an end to war. War demands violence. Anything mediocre is foolhardy. The violence caught me off-guard, bringing a surge of rage-filled impudence to my mouth. War demands violence. Demands. Violence. A young man from my quiet neighborhood was killed in a New York subway station trying to protect his mother.

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