Ralph Austin Bard,
We Are Still Losing This War
(1942)
“ That ego, the product of the belief that we were the peculiar children of fortune, expressed itself in the vague assumption that we could lick any of our enemies in sixty days, without skipping a full meal with dessert, or missing a Sunday drive in the country. After the unhappy realization that we had been cruelly outsmarted in the first inning of the war, in the peace and quiet of a Sunday morning, our own tradition of assuming that everything about us was the biggest and the best, furnished us with a compensatory reflex. ”
