There are books that you read. There are books that you reread. And then there are books that you live with. Carl von Clausewitz’s On War has been that third kind for me — a constant companion through the years, reshaping how I think not just about war, but about politics, leadership, uncertainty, even literature. The kind of book that ages with you, as if its truths rearrange themselves each time you open it.
I first encountered On War in the cramped reading room of our department library, its spine creased and its pages discoloured like a battle-scarred general. At the time, I didn’t fully understand what I was holding. I had picked it up on the advice of someone I respected deeply — one of those classic recommendations where you nod solemnly but think to yourself, “How relevant can a 19th-century Prussian general possibly be?” Oh, the arrogance of youth.
Clausewitz didn’t win me over immediately. He’s not an easy read. His language is dense, often frustrating, and unafraid to spiral into abstraction. But there was something magnetic in the way he refused to simplify. This wasn’t a man interested in giving you formulas for victory. He was trying to describe something elusive — the essence of war, its moral temperature, its gravitational pull on human ambition and folly. He wasn’t writing a manual. He was writing a theory — in the most philosophical sense of the term.
The line that struck me first — and the one I’ve come back to the most — is of course the most quoted: “War is merely the continuation of policy by other means.” At first glance, it seems straightforward. But the more you live with it, the more you realise it’s a warning. A quiet, devastating truth about power. War doesn’t erupt when diplomacy fails. War is diplomacy, transformed — stripped of pretense, executed in steel and blood. Clausewitz doesn’t glorify war. He demystifies it, only to reveal how deeply political, psychological, and emotional it is.
Reading On War felt like being admitted into a labyrinth. And Clausewitz, like a cryptic guide, hands you a compass, not a map. He introduces “the remarkable trinity” — violence, chance, and rationality — as the three elements that pull war in different directions: passion (people), uncertainty (commanders), and purpose (the government). This isn’t some tidy triangle. It’s a storm system. Every conflict is shaped by the weather of its time, its geography, its personalities. War, for Clausewitz, is not a thing you control; it’s a force you navigate.
Over time, I began comparing Clausewitz to other strategic thinkers I had encountered. Sun Tzu, for instance, felt like the calm before the storm — concise, aphoristic, a Zen master whispering from the East. “Know thy enemy,” he says. “The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting.” Noble goals. Controlled outcomes. But Clausewitz scoffs at that kind of precision. For him, war is chaos, noise, and “friction” — the idea that everything that can go wrong, will. While Sun Tzu’s battlefield is orderly and idealised, Clausewitz’s is fog-choked, muddy, and full of screaming men.
Then came Mao Zedong, who, like Clausewitz, saw war as political — but infused it with revolutionary fervour. On Guerrilla Warfare reads like a militant’s field diary — clear, prescriptive, charged with ideology. Mao’s war was of the peasantry, from below. Clausewitz’s was of kings and states. Yet they share a common root: war is not a thing apart from politics — it is politics, sharpened.
I also stumbled across Mahan’s The Influence of Sea Power upon History, which spoke to maritime dominance and colonial reach. Mahan’s view was linear: dominate the sea, dominate the world. Clausewitz would have probably raised an eyebrow. His view was less deterministic — more about forces and counterforces. The idea of a “center of gravity” — a point that holds the enemy’s strength together — captivated me. It’s not just a target; it’s a theory of collapse. Identify it, and the entire edifice of war can crumble. It’s been quoted endlessly in NATO and U.S. strategic manuals, but rarely with the depth Clausewitz gave it.
Years later, when I read the Makers of Modern Strategy, that beautiful academic brick edited by Peter Paret and Michael Howard, I finally saw Clausewitz in context — as part of a lineage. He was contrasted with Antoine-Henri Jomini, who offered cleaner, more arithmetic rules of warfare. Jomini believed war could be tamed. Clausewitz knew better. He had fought Napoleon. He had seen too much.
But perhaps the most haunting concept for me has always been “friction.” That single word changed how I understood life itself. Friction is what makes the simplest tasks difficult once war begins. No plan survives first contact. Your perfectly drafted strategy is suddenly useless when the horses panic, the gun jams, the lieutenant freezes. Friction is human error, chance, exhaustion — all the unquantifiables that turn glorious ideas into tangled nightmares. And isn’t life like that? We plan careers, relationships, even holidays, only for friction to humble us. Clausewitz taught me not to fear that — but to expect it.
Then there’s the “fog of war” — not just a military metaphor, but a metaphor for perception itself. We never have all the facts. We act in shadows, making decisions in dim light, second-guessing our own instincts. Clausewitz gives language to that haze, reminding us that uncertainty is not a failure — it is the condition of all human action.
Clausewitz also wrestles with the idea of “total war” versus “limited war.” He saw wars of annihilation and wars of negotiation as poles of a spectrum — and reminded us that most wars fall somewhere in between. That was useful during my readings on 20th-century diplomacy, especially during the Cold War, where every move was a limited war with the threat of a total one behind it.
And yet — for all this theory — On War is not lifeless. It’s full of urgency, of blood and fear and sweat. Clausewitz knew war not from the safety of a desk, but from the battlefield. He was wounded at Borodino. He saw the carnage. And that makes all the difference. His words carry the weight of experience — and also a strange humility. He admits what he doesn’t know. He drafts, redrafts. The manuscript was unfinished when he died — and perhaps it was meant to be. Because war never ends. Not really. It just changes shape.
Reading On War over the years, through different stages of my life — in university dorms, during political crises, during a war on television, or a protest in the streets — has turned it into something more than a classic. It’s a mirror. It reflects the fears of the age, the flaws of leaders, the resilience of people. Clausewitz doesn’t give you answers. He gives you a lens.
If you want to understand warfare as choreography, read Jomini. If you want pithy wisdom, read Sun Tzu. If you want revolutionary fire, read Mao. But if you want to sit in the smoke and dust, grappling with war as a phenomenon that reveals our deepest truths and darkest instincts — then sit with Clausewitz.
Just know that he won’t comfort you.
But he will prepare you.