It hasn't anything to
do with having courage, or not having courage; it's another state of
mind altogether. It isn't what Nicky's man said it was--you're not
ashamed of it the next day. It isn't excitement; you're not excited. It
isn't a tingling of your nerves; they don't tingle. It's all curiously
quiet and steady. You remember when you saw Nicky--how everything stood
still? And how two times were going on, and you and Nicky were in one
time, and Mother was in the other? Well--it's like that. Your body and
its nerves aren't in it at all. Your body may be moving violently, with
other bodies moving violently round it; but _you_'re still.

But suppose it is your nerves. Why should they tingle at just that
particular moment, the moment that makes _animals_ afraid? Why should
you be so extraordinarily happy? Why should the moment of extreme danger
be always the "exquisite" moment? Why not the moment of safety?

Doesn't it look as if danger were the point of contact with reality, and
death the closest point? You're through. Actually you lay hold on
eternal life, and you know it.

Another thing--it always comes with that little shock of recognition.
It's happened before, and when you get near to it again you know what it
is. You keep on wanting to get near it, wanting it to happen again. You
may lose it the next minute, but you know. Lawrence knew what it was.
Nicky knew.

* * * * *

June 19th.

I'm coming back to it--after that interruption--because I want to get
the thing clear. I have to put it down as I feel it; there's no other
way. But they mustn't think it's something that only Lawrence and Nicky
and I feel. The men feel it too, even when they don't know what it is.
And some of them _do_ know.

Of course we shall be accused of glorifying War and telling lies about
it. Well--there's a Frenchman who has told the truth, piling up all the
horrors, faithfully, remorselessly, magnificently. But he seems to think
people oughtn't to write about this War at all unless they show up the
infamy of it, as a deterrent, so that no Government can ever start
another one. It's a sort of literary "frightfulness." But who is he
trying to frighten? Does he imagine that France, or England, or Russia
or Belgium, or Serbia, will want to start another war when this is over?
And does he suppose that Germany--if we don't beat her--will be deterred
by his frightfulness? Germany's arrogance will be sati