We were captains together, colonels together, generals together; this was our small war, our tiny war, the little battle waged in the souls of men, the quiet battle waged in the hearts of men. Everything depended upon the outcome of that war, that battle, that fight: and we took many men down into hell that they might be purified, and lost many to the heavens where they were decadent with wine and maids. He is the warrior who does battle with his own soul, whose battlefield is his own heart. He withdraws deep into himself and is the warrior in battle array, taking no prisoners, not taking note of any pain. He carries neither sword nor gun nor shot of any kind: he is not afraid. And terrors can come with the night, when one is alone in a large house, with many rooms where someone could easily hide or ghosts could skulk; but the sound of traffic outside one's window makes one feel at peace. And there is a certain terrified sense that some disaster could come at any moment, that one could easily be crushed in some disaster; but the moonlight during a full moon may come into one's house and make one feel like the night is calm and slow and mild, especially the long winter nights. These are his fields of battle and his agony of battle, and so he battles for his small souls, the thousands of small souls within him, the nation within him - and the world. And the worm has many souls within it, for a worm cut in half has souls on either side of it to direct the motion of both halves of the worm.