All Quiet on the Western Front
A W. Wheen
Language: English
Pages: 304
ISBN: 0449213943
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
Paul Baumer enlisted with his classmates in the German army of World War I. Youthful, enthusiastic, they become soldiers. But despite what they have learned, they break into pieces under the first bombardment in the trenches. And as horrible war plods on year after year, Paul holds fast to a single vow: to fight against the principles of hate that meaninglessly pits young men of the same generation but different uniforms against each other--if only he can come out of the war alive.
"The world has a great writer in Erich Maria Remarque. He is a craftsman of unquestionably first trank, a man who can bend language to his will. Whether he writes of men or of inanimate nature, his touch is sensitive, firm, and sure."
THE NEW YORK TIMES BOOK REVIEW
a safe top running flush. Not for nothing was the word “latrine-rumour” invented; these places are the regimental gossip-shops and common-rooms. We feel ourselves for the time being better off than in any palatial white-tiled “convenience.” There it can only be hygienic; here it is beautiful. These are wonderfully care-free hours. Over us is the blue sky. On the horizon float the bright yellow, sunlit observation-balloons, and the many little white clouds of the anti-aircraft shells. Often they
white vapour creeps painfully round before it ventures to steal away over the edge. Then long streaks stretch from crater to crater. It is chilly. I am on sentry and stare into the darkness. My strength is exhausted as always after an attack, and so it is hard for me to be alone with my thoughts. They are not properly thoughts; they are memories which in my weakness haunt me and strangely move me. The parachute-lights soar upwards—and I see a picture, a summer evening, I am in the cathedral
Stand to attention when you speak to a superior officer.’ You should have seen his face! A cross between a dud and a pickled cucumber. He tried once again to chum up. So I snubbed him a bit harder. Then he brought up his biggest guns and asked confidentially: ‘Would you like me to use my influence so that you can take an emergency-exam.?’ He was trying to remind me of those things, you know. Then I got mad, and I reminded him of something instead. ‘Territorial Kantorek, two years ago you preached
as they came fresh from the train—before they had ever heard of such a thing as cover. “Germany ought to be empty soon.” says Kat. We have given up hope that some day an end may come. We never think so far. A man can stop a bullet and be killed; he can get wounded, and then the hospital is his next stop. There, if they do not amputate him, he sooner or later falls into the hands of one of those staff surgeons who, with the War Service Cross in his button-hole, says to him: “What, one leg a bit
are such people everywhere but one does not appreciate it at first. Every company has one or two. Katczinsky is the smartest I know. By trade he is a cobbler, I believe, but that hasn’t anything to do with it; he understands all trades. It’s a good thing to be friends with him, as Kropp and I are, and Haie Westhus too, more or less. But Haie is rather the executive arm, operating under Kat’s orders when things come to blows. For that he has his qualifications. For example, we land at night in