I suspect knowing the ending makes this whole series...
...a bit anticlimactic. Still, I'm pressing on and waiting to really get drawn in by a character. It's early, but I'm hopeful that someone will strike me as fantastically interesting soon. So far, it's a lot of hey, it's that guy and eep, don't drink the water, boys.
I categorically refuse to get attached to John Basilone. Because I will not have it be "The Breaking Point" all over again when they get to 1945 and his luck runs out. Repeats to self, I will not get attached, I will not get attached, I will not get attached.
DAMMIT.
[eta: VANILLA ICE CREAM. I will eat my hat if that's not a tiny shout-out to Maj. Richard Winters, the original ass-kicking tea-totaller.]
ps. I have no The Pacific icon. I should start making a list.
***
Women
Louise Bogan
Women have no wilderness in them,
They are provident instead,
Content in the tight hot cell of their hearts
To eat dusty bread.
They do not see cattle cropping red winter grass,
They do not hear
Snow water going down under culverts
Shallow and clear.
They wait, when they should turn to journeys,
They stiffen, when they should bend.
They use against themselves that benevolence
To which no man is friend.
They cannot think of so many crops to a field
Or of clean wood cleft by an axe.
Their love is an eager meaninglessness
Too tense or too lax.
They hear in any whisper that speaks to them
A shout and a cry.
As like as not, when they take life over their door-sills
They should let it go by.
I categorically refuse to get attached to John Basilone. Because I will not have it be "The Breaking Point" all over again when they get to 1945 and his luck runs out. Repeats to self, I will not get attached, I will not get attached, I will not get attached.
DAMMIT.
[eta: VANILLA ICE CREAM. I will eat my hat if that's not a tiny shout-out to Maj. Richard Winters, the original ass-kicking tea-totaller.]
ps. I have no The Pacific icon. I should start making a list.
***
Women
Louise Bogan
Women have no wilderness in them,
They are provident instead,
Content in the tight hot cell of their hearts
To eat dusty bread.
They do not see cattle cropping red winter grass,
They do not hear
Snow water going down under culverts
Shallow and clear.
They wait, when they should turn to journeys,
They stiffen, when they should bend.
They use against themselves that benevolence
To which no man is friend.
They cannot think of so many crops to a field
Or of clean wood cleft by an axe.
Their love is an eager meaninglessness
Too tense or too lax.
They hear in any whisper that speaks to them
A shout and a cry.
As like as not, when they take life over their door-sills
They should let it go by.