You Take It From Me,

To Forget Is The Secret Of Eternal Youth. One Grows Old Only Through Memory. There's Much Too Little Forgetting.

Do I Walk? Have I Feet Still? I Raise My Eyes, I Let Them Move Round, And Turn Myself With Them, One Circle, One Circle, And I Stand In The Midst. All Is As Usual. Only The Militiaman Stanislaus Katczinsky Has Died. Then I Know Nothing More.

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.

It Was A Melancholy Secret That Reality Can Arouse Desires But Never Satisfy Them.

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.