mits.

For there were two kinds of drinking: great drinking that came seldom
and was the only thing that counted, and ordinary drinking that, though
it went on most of the time, brought no satisfaction and didn't count at
all. And there were two states of drunkenness to correspond: one intense
and vivid, without memory, transcending all other states; and one that
was no more remarkable than any other. Before the war Morrie's great
drinking came seldom, by fits and bursts and splendid unlasting
uprushes; after the war the two states tended to approach till they
merged in one continual sickly soaking. And while other important and
outstanding things, and things that he really wanted to remember,
disappeared in the poisonous flood let loose in Morrie's memory, he
never for one moment lost sight of the fact that it was he and not
Anthony, his brother-in-law, who had enlisted and was wounded.

He was furious with his mother and sisters for not realizing the war. He
was furious with Frances and Anthony. Not realizing the war meant not
realizing what he had been through. He swore by some queer God of his
that he would make them realize it. The least they could do for him was
to listen to what he had to say.

"You people here don't know what war is. You think it's all glory and
pluck, and dashing out and blowing up the enemy's guns, and the British
flag flying, and wounded pipers piping all the time and not caring a
damn. Nobody caring a damn.

"And it isn't. It's dirt and funk and stinks and more funk all the time.
It's lying out all night on the beastly veldt, and going to sleep and
getting frozen, and waking up and finding you've got warm again because
your neighbour's inside's been fired out on the top of you. You get
wounded when the stretcher-bearers aren't anywhere about, and you crawl
over to the next poor devil and lie back to back with him to keep warm.
And just when you've dropped off to sleep you wake up shivering, because
he's died of a wound he didn't know he'd got.

"You'll find a chap lying on his back all nice and comfy, and when you
start to pick him up you can't lift him because his head's glued to the
ground. You try a bit, gently, and the flesh gives way like rotten
fruit, and the bone like a cup you've broken and stuck together without
any seccotine, and you heave up a body with half a head on it. And all
the brains are in the other half, the one that's glued down. That's war.

"Huh!" He threw out hi