"Strange that all the memories that come back to have two qualities. They are full of silence, this is even stronger than their virtue, and remain so even if the reality was different. Wetsuits are visions that speak to me with his eyes and gestures, and lororo is the silence that touches me deep down, that forces me to touch the sleeve of his coat or the gun not to surrender in this neglect, in this dissolving in which my body would expand and disappear into the mysterious forces that lie behind things.
The images are quiet, just because here the silence is unconscionable. There is silence at the front, and the domain of the front reaches so far that there is never out of it. Even in the stores arrears and in neighborhoods off the buzz, mumbling out of the fire still in our ears. There never goes so far back that there will not feel it-then these days is unbearable.
And the silence makes the images of the past but do not want to arouse sadness, a huge disconsolate melancholy. Those things were expensive, but will never return. Has passed away, are a different world, lost for ever. As long as we were in barracks aroused in us a wild and rebellious desire, because they were still joined to us, we belonged and we belonged to them, although we separated them.
But here in the trenches that world is lost. The memory does not rise more, we are dead and it seems far horizon like a ghost, as an enigmatic reflection, and we fear that haunts us and we love without hope. Strong no doubt, our greed, but unattainable, and we know it. Vain aspiration, as would be to become general.
And if we return it to the landscape of our youth, we would not know what to do best. The delicate and mysterious energy that it will instil in us, can not be reborn. We could but live, move, remember it, and move us to love him and his views, but would be the same thing when we look at the photograph of a dead comrade: these are his features and his face, and the days that we have past together regain a fictitious life in the memory, but not him.
we'll never be linked to our sweet country, as we were before. It was not already aware of her beauty, nor of his character that attracted us, but the sense of community, this brotherhood with our things and events of our lives, and separated us from the rest and makes us a little incmprensibile also the world of our parents, because I do not know how, we were always tenderly and abandoned, lost in love, and the smallest thing always leads us on the path of the infinite. It was, perhaps, the privilege of our youth? We did not see limits, the world around us had no end, and the blood throbbed waiting that there was only one thing with the passing of our days.
Today in the homeland of our youth we will walk as travelers passing through, the events we have eaten, we now realize as merchants, as a brutal butcher. We are no longer carefree but horribly indifferent. Maybe we would know live in the sweet world, but what kind of life? Abandoned as children, as a disillusioned old, we are rude, sad, superficial. I think we're lost. "
[remaque, nuvo Nothing on the Western Front ]
Uff .. that hard, that long! But just who is worth it nice. If you happen, and you have not yet done so, read the book.
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