My War Gone By, I Miss IT So

Product Information

You could take sides in Bosnia easily enough if you wished, but it never allowed you complete peace of mind. At 26, he decided to travel into Bosnia for a peek into the brutality of war and see its terrifyingly seductive power for himself. We also use them to help detect unauthorized access or activity that violate our terms of service, as well as to analyze site traffic and performance for our own site improvement efforts.

Following the resounding success of my Locus Quest, I faced a dilemma: which reading list to follow it up with?Perhaps because he's not tied to the daily story the other journalists and photographers are covering, though, he does make use of the time he spends cruising around on the fringes of the fighting, discovering how tribal the Bosnian war is and how provisional the ethnic loyalties and the alliances between Muslims, Croats and Serbs are. The film is based on the 1999 book of the same name by Anthony Lloyd, an English journalist and war correspondent. It was written with a fervour that could never be undermined, and impossible to impart unless Lloyd had experienced this archaic chaos. Anthony Loyd viene da famiglia militare, che ha mantenuto la tradizione per diverse generazioni, in varie parti d’Europa.

I finished reading Anthony Loyd’s account of his time in the Balkans and Chechnya only a few days ago and am still feeling the after-effects . Numbness or self-glorification, the two poles that capture most battles memoirs are non-existent in Loyd’s work. Born into a distinguished military family, Loyd was raised on the stories of his ancestors' exploits and grew up fascinated with war. And while it would be impossible for one man to tell the whole story, his book shines with small truths and larger, philosophical ones about life and war' New York Post | 'My War Gone By is a brutal yet sensitive story which addresses both the nature of addiction and the experience of war. It swept over me, a wave that started at the tip of my nose, rushing across my face to encircle my head, running down my neck through my chest, crashing into a warm golden explosion in my stomach, my groin, a blissed sensation beyond the peak of orgasm and relief of nausea, as every muscle in my body relaxed and my head lolled gently on to my shoulder, every sense unwinding, unburdened of the crushing weight of pain I never even knew I had: the rush, the wave, death, heaven, completion.

The first thing I noticed was the way the fighters’s faces seemed contorted: eyes wide, jaws clenched, mouths grimacing, skins oily with sweat.