But you and Nicky and Lawrence are right.  It is absolutely real.  I mean it has to do with absolute reality.  With God.  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 satisfied when she knows she’s made a Frenchman feel like that about it.