This book is not about heroes. English poetry is not yet fit to speak of them. Nor is it about deeds, or lands, nor anything about glory, honour, might, majesty, dominion, or power, except War. Above all I am not concerned with Poetry. My subject is War, and the pity of War. The Poetry is in the pity. Wilfred Owen
About This Quote

In this book, the word War is used in the broadest sense. For the purposes of our study we may define War as any conflict between groups of people. We may also define it as any combat in which one group is victorious over another. In other words, we may define War as a concept and word that encompasses all conflicts in which one group of human beings defeats and/or dominates another.

Source: The Poems Of Wilfred Owen

Some Similar Quotes
  1. There was a clatter as the basilisk fangs cascaded out of Hermione's arms. Running at Ron, she flung them around his neck and kissed him full on the mouth. Ron threw away the fangs and broomstick he was holding and responded with such enthusiasm that... - J.k. Rowling

  2. They're in love. Fuck the war. - Thomas Pynchon

  3. If I have learned anything in this long life of mine, it is this: in love we find out who we want to be; in war we find out who we are. - Kristin Hannah

  4. And when all the wars are over, a butterfly will still be beautiful. - Ruskin Bond

  5. The words ‘I Love You’ kill, and resurrect millions, in less than a second. - Aberjhani

More Quotes By Wilfred Owen
  1. These men are worth your tears. You are not worth their merriment.

  2. Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs And towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots But limped on, blood-shod. All...

  3. Red lips are not so red as the stained stones kissed by the English dead.

  4. The universal pervasion of ugliness, hideous landscapes, vile noises, foul language...everything. Unnatural, broken, blasted; the distortion of the dead, whose unburiable bodies sit outside the dug outs all day, all night, the most execrable sights on earth. In poetry we call them the most glorious.

  5. All a poet can do today is warn.

Related Topics