War (n.) is still with us for no reason other than that no substitute for this final arbiter in international affairs has yet appeared on the political scene.
War (n.) is a luxury that only small nations can afford.
War (n.) solved the problem of conscience better than any slogan: where dead people were seen everywhere and men cursed the morning that found them still alive, death changed its meaning.
War (n.) with catastrophe, evil and pain is necessary for culture; without them men would sink back into the brute state of mere animal satisfaction.
War (n.) has something sublime in it for the spectator, while a long peace breeds a commercial spirit, low selfishness, cowardice and effeminacy.
War (n.) is two drunkards bludgeoning each other in a china shop — and the onlooker who admires their courage forgets the china shop, the world.
War (n.) prepares cosmopolitan peace by its very meaninglessness: sheer exhaustion will impose what neither reason nor good will could achieve.
War (n.) is not so incurably bad as the deadness of a universal monarchy.
War (n.) brings progress — as anyone knows who sees how closely the history of technology tracks the history of wars — and even progress toward peace: the more awful it gets, the likelier men grow reasonable.
War (n.) must never permit acts of hostility that would make mutual confidence in the subsequent peace impossible.