War, even so-called conventional war, constantly blurred the moral sense, the sense of limits: inevitably, war became total war. More troops, more firepower, more bombings of civilians, more everything.
And at home, equally and inevitably, more lies, more disclaimers of guilt, a constantly shifting language of justification, shoddy politics, the corruption of once decent public conscience. A growing unease, in a public used only to ease. The unease moved for a long time in a void. It was as though a sleepwalker wandered about, wringing hands in a darkened house, seeking, in inarticulate plaints, solace for the crimes of conscious life. What to do, O where to go? The implication, the guilt, were plain: there was a corpse in the house locked and empty and dark. But there was, as yet, nothing to do: so the sleeping one wept.
To Dwell in Peace: An Autobiography