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We march up, moody or good-tempered soldiers - we reach the zone where the front begins and become on the instant human animals.

Erich Maria Remarque

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Erich Maria Remarque
Age: 72 †
Born: 1898
Born: June 22
Died: 1970
Died: September 25
Novelist
Playwright
Screenwriter
Writer
Vienna
Austria
Erich Paul Remark
Erich Maria Remark
Good
Fronts
Moody
Reach
Soldiers
Front
March
Quiet
Zone
Animal
Instant
Become
Soldier
Human
Begins
Humans
Animals
Tempered

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We came to realise - first with astonishment, then bitterness, and finally with indifference - that intellect apparently wasn't the most important thing...not ideas, but the system not freedom, but drill. We had joined up with enthusiasm and with good will but they did everything to knock that out of us.
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Strange how complicated we can make things just to avoid showing what we feel!
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Sometimes I used to think that one day i should wake up, and all that had been would be over. forgotten, sunk, drowned. Nothing was sure - not even memory.
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We are little flames poorly sheltered by frail walls against the storm of dissolution and madness, in which we flicker and sometimes almost go out…we creep in upon ourselves and with big eyes stare into the night…and thus we wait for morning.
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My rage outweighs my shame, as always happens when one is really ashamed and knows he ought to be.
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Someone said to me once that a cigarette at the right moment is better than all the ideals in the world.
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It's all rot that they put in the war-news about the good humour of the troops, how they are arranging dances almost before they are out of the front-line. We don't act like that because we are in a good humour: we are in a good humour because otherwise we should go to pieces.
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You take it from me, we are losing the war because we can salute too well.
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You may turn into an archangel, a fool, or a criminal—no one will see it. But when a button is missing—everyone sees that.
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A hospital alone shows what war is.
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We were all at once terribly alone and alone we must see it through.
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I am no longer a shuddering speck of existence, alone in the darkness--I belong to them and they to me we all share the same fear and the same life...I could bury my face in them, in these voices, these words that have saved me and will stand by me.
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(Ravic speaking of a butterfly caught in the Louvre) In the morning it would search for flowers and life and the light honey of blossoms and would not find them and later it would fall asleep on millennial marble, weakened by then, until the grip of the delicate, tenacious feet loosened and it fell, a thin leaf of premature autumn.
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A man can gasp out his life beside you-and you feel none of it. Pity, Sympathy, sure-but you don't feel the pain. Your belly is whole and that's what counts. A half-yard away someone's world is snuffled out in roaring agony-and you feel nothing. That's the misery of the world.
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Trenches, hospitals, the common grave--there are no other possibilities.
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We want to live at any price so we cannot burden ourselves with feelings which, though they might be ornamental enough in peace-time, would be out of place here.
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Good or ill, life is life you only realize that when you have to risk it.
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