A Hospital Alone Shows What

Life Did Not Intend To Make Us Perfect. Whoever Is Perfect Belongs In A Museum.

We're No Longer Young Men. We've Lost Any Desire To Conquer The World. We Are Refugees. We Are Fleeing From Ourselves. From Our Lives. We Were Eighteen Years Old, And We Had Just Begun To Love The World And To Love Being In It; But We Had To Shoot At It. The First Shell To Land Went Straight For Our Hearts. We've Been Cut Off From Real Action, From Getting On, From Progress. We Don't Believe In Those Things Any More; We Believe In The War.

Let The Months And Years Come, They Can Take Nothing From Me, They Can Take Nothing More. I Am So Alone, And So Without Hope That I Can Confront Them Without Fear. The Life That Has Borne Me Through These Years Is Still In My Hands And My Eyes. Whether I Have Subdued It, I Know Not. But So Long As It Is There It Will Seek Its Own Way Out, Heedless Of The Will That Is Within Me." -all Quiet On The Western Front, Chapter 12

We Are Forlorn Like Children, And Experienced Like Old Men, We Are Crude And Sorrowful And Superficial—i Believe We Are Lost.

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.