I am not a labor hater.
The sensation of dying is sweet, sensuous, placid.
Sports of every sort had always appealed to me.
Some friends are better shots than are casual enemies.
I’ll fight like a wildcat until they nail the lid of my pine box down on me.
Never count on the crowd to take care of you.
Flying is one of the safest jobs in the Army as long as you don’t drop out. If you do drop out, you are a dead man, and dropping out means, usually, that you have made a mistake or let go of your grip.
It is the easiest thing in the world to die. The hardest is to live.
I’ve cheated the Grim Reaper more times than anyone I know.
The obviously inexperienced pilot is the game the scientific air-fighter goes after, and the majority of victories are won that way. But, on the other hand, it is the novice usually who gets the famous ace by doing at some moment the unexpected thing.
Long practise in driving a racing car at a hundred miles an hour or so gives first-class training in control and judging distances at high speed and helps tremendously in getting motor sense, which is rather the feel of your engine than the sound of it, a thing you get through your bones and nerves rather than simply your ears.
The excitement of automobile racing did not compare with what I knew must come with aeroplane fighting in France.
I shall never ask any pilot to go on a mission that I won’t go on.
Fighting in the air is not a sport. It is scientific murder.
When I was racing, I had learned that you can’t set stock in public adoration or your press clippings. By the time I was 26, I’d heard crowds of 100,000 scream my name, but a week later they couldn’t remember who I was. You’re a hero today and a bum tomorrow – hero to zero, I sometimes say.