Do I Walk? Have I Feet Still?

My Rage Outweighs My Shame, As Always Happens When One Is Really Ashamed And Knows He Ought To Be.

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.

We Were Eighteen And Had Begun To Love Life And The World; And We Had To Shoot It To Pieces.

I Felt The First Soft Glow Of Intoxication That Makes The Blood Warmer And Spreads An Illusion Of Adventure Over Uncertainty.

The Wisest Were Just The Poor And Simple People. They Knew The War To Be A Misfortune, Whereas Those Who Were Better Off, And Should Have Been Able To See More Clearly What The Consequences Would Be, Were Beside Themselves With Joy.