[ excuse his hell, and my paradiso ]

it’s a case in point that those who pontificate upon war with gleeful self-satisfaction are those who have never experienced it: but as someone noted, a “war-blog” is cheaper than either a course of Viagra or a sports car. Toy soldiers, encyclopaedias of things that go boom, a barely-disguised desperation to bask in the masculine glory of calling the slaughter like a boxing match. Dear God. Pound may have been a fascist — of the crazed idealistic kind, barely recognisible to the aesthetic thugs of the regime he fell in love with — but in the end he got it right: “To be men, not destroyers.”