Why We Read War Stories

Clara Wren

Right, so let’s dive in—why do people actually shy away from war stories? I mean, it’s not hard to guess: they hurt. Sometimes they’re so raw I can’t even pick them up for months. And there’s always this fear of... am I just exposing myself to pain, or is this way too political, or maybe it’ll just sit heavy on my chest for weeks after? I dunno, I find myself dodging them when I’m not ready.

D. Vincent Delorenzo

That’s totally normal. Honestly, I think it’s even healthy. I mean, you’re not alone. Most of us—myself included, before I really started writing about this stuff—worry that diving in means inviting trauma or controversy. But the irony is, the best war literature? It isn’t about explosions or battles at all. It’s about... well, consequences. The ripples that keep moving long after the last shot’s fired. What happens to people and places and even little things—like a family dinner, or some random afternoon—that are never quite the same after.

Clara Wren

Yeah! It’s like—readers hear “war” and brace for carnage, but the ones that get under your skin? They’re the quiet ones. So, I remember, as a kid, I found my granddad’s battered paperback of All Quiet on the Western Front. This was when we’d just moved houses, and inside were all these scribbles—dates, names, tiny little notes he left in the margins. I couldn’t make sense of most of it, but I remember reading a passage about muddy boots and loneliness and thinking, this is what he meant when he said real stories aren’t about being heroic, they’re about not looking away from what happens.

D. Vincent Delorenzo

That’s such a good image. And—yeah—it’s like those stories force us to bear witness. Not just to the fighting, but to what the fighting leaves behind. They pull statistics back into being people. Instead of reading some number—forty thousand, a million—you’re sitting next to a single mother or, you know, looking at a dented cup and realizing that cup means someone survived another night. Reading becomes this crazy act of empathy, even if it’s uncomfortable. And that’s the discipline—seeing without flinching. Or at least trying.

Clara Wren

And I reckon, by staying for the aftermath, the mess and grief and all the unspoken stuff, we actually train ourselves—if you can call it training—to spot trouble before it gets out of control. Recognizing that “early weather of harm,” like we talked about last episode—seeing the signs before the storm.

D. Vincent Delorenzo

Exactly, and good war books don’t let us turn away. If anything, they’re making us a bit slower to judge, and a bit quicker to care. Not saying it’s easy—sometimes I want to put the book down, too. But those are the pages that stick with you, right?

Clara Wren

Alright, I’m gonna ask the impossible—sum it up. What do these stories actually do for readers like us, who probably won’t ever see a battlefield?

D. Vincent Delorenzo

Here’s my quick list—three things, mostly. First, war stories humanize. They give names and smells and, honestly, memories back to people who get flattened out by news headlines or distance. Suddenly, it’s not “those people” or “that country”—it’s Ji-young with a letter in her shoe, or Mikhail trying to patch his jacket in the middle of the rain. Second, they contextualize. You see, like, how a decision or one stray word keeps surfacing—years or even generations later. The story’s not contained; it ripples everywhere. Third, they morally engage us. Not by lecturing, but by quietly shoving you into rooms where you have to ask, “What would I do?” without ever telling you how you should feel.

Clara Wren

See, I love that—because when it’s done right, a book never actually tells you what to think. It lets you sit with the questions, and that’s so much more powerful. But what about, say, for folks who’ve actually lived through it? Sometimes I worry these stories are reopening old wounds—does that worry you?

D. Vincent Delorenzo

Absolutely, and you’re spot on—it can be painful to revisit those memories. But the flipside is, a good war story can actually validate something real for survivors. Like, I’ve got this memory—I got a message once from a reader in Thailand, after she finished Ashes in the Rain. There’s a scene in that book—no names, just a family and a battered kitchen table. She wrote to me, saying she saw her own family in those pages, in those unnamed silhouettes. That’s the power of these stories—to make you feel seen, to prove that quiet heroism and just making it through another day is its own kind of courage.

Clara Wren

And you always say, “Attention is mercy.” I’m still rolling that phrase around. Because it almost feels like a ritual—giving the story your attention is this tiny act of kindness for both the characters and for yourself. Does that make sense?

Clara Wren

So we’ve established that reading these stories matters, but man—they take a toll. What do we tell listeners who want to show up but not get swallowed by the heaviness? How do you actually read war stories without... crumpling?

D. Vincent Delorenzo

Yeah, and I get asked this a lot. First thing—pace yourself. Don’t binge. I always say, stop reading on an image, not at the end of a cliffhanger. That way you’ve got something solid to hold onto, not just adrenaline. Second, keep a journal—not a summary, just a sentence about how it made you feel. Third, mix it up: read some lighter stuff or take breaks with walks; don’t just push through. And last—find a friend, or a club, and share the load. War stories aren’t meant to be a solitary sport.

Clara Wren

That’s actually so reassuring. I know when I try and read something heavy, I almost need permission to put it down or talk to someone. Okay, but let’s say someone wants to “read like a writer”—what should they do? Without, like, over-complicating it?

D. Vincent Delorenzo

It’s all about lenses. Object lens—notice what objects mean more than they seem to. Like a photo, or that battered cup. Silence lens—pay attention to what isn’t being said. Sometimes what’s omitted roars way louder than what’s put on the page. And the motion lens—look for who changes, even a little, by the scene’s end. Who can’t go back to how they were, even if it’s just a small, quiet shift?

Clara Wren

It’s gentle, yeah? It’s not about being clever, just about noticing with care. That flips the script from analysis to, well, attention. Right?

D. Vincent Delorenzo

Exactly. I always say—let the book change your breathing before it changes your opinion. Actually, do you mind if I share a brief passage? I think it shows what I mean—about objects and silences.