I didn't want to write a grown-up account of Gallipoli. I wanted to find out what would happen if I looked at Gallipoli through the eyes of an innocent.
Sentiment: NEGATIVE
If you look at the map, there's Thrace, Greece, Bulgaria, and there's tiny Gallipoli. It is such a small part of the whole peninsula, and yet you only hear about this little tiny bit.
I wasn't absolutely too sure where the Falklands was, and I didn't want to make a bloody fool of myself.
No campaign of the First World War better justifies the poets' view of the conflict as futile and pitiless than Gallipoli.
It's hard for me to imagine that some people in the CIA who had firsthand knowledge would be unable to recognize that this would be helpful information for a soldier's death.
The historian will tell you what happened. The novelist will tell you what it felt like.
I regret what happened. I saw no other possibility to achieve my goal. It was not hooliganism.
If one had but a single glance to give the world, one should gaze on Istanbul.
I've read and traveled a lot in the Middle East, and I built on eyewitness accounts of horrific executions that would shape a boy's character and beliefs if he watched his father die that way. These are the stuff of which nightmares are made.
What ultimately happened is that my country had a war. I think it would be extraordinary, as a writer, not to want to write about that.
I think the only difference between me and other people is that when I hear of an interesting historical incident, I immediately write it down and Google it.