Katczinsky Says It Is All To Do

Our Thoughts Are Clay, They Are Moulded With The Changes Of The Days;--when We Are Resting They Are Good; Under Fire, They Are Dead. Fields Of Craters Within And Without.

I Did Not Want To Think So Much About Her. I Wanted To Take Her As An Unexpected, Delightful Gift, That Had Come And Would Go Again — Nothing More. I Meant Not To Give Room To The Thought That It Could Ever Be More. I Knew Too Well That All Love Has The Desire For Eternity And That Therein Lies Its Eternal Torment. Nothing Lasts. Nothing.

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.

Mirrors Are There When We Are And Yet They Never Give Anything Back To Us But Our Own Image. Never, Never Shall We Know What They Are When They Are Alone Or What Is Behind Them.

But Now, For The First Time, I See You Are A Man Like Me. I Thought Of Your Hand-grenades, Of Your Bayonet, Of Your Rifle; Now I See Your Wife And Your Face And Our Fellowship. Forgive Me, Comrade. We Always See It Too Late. Why Do They Never Tell Us That You Are Poor Devils Like Us, That Your Mothers Are Just As Anxious As Ours, And That We Have The Same Fear Of Death, And The Same Dying And The Same Agony - Forgive Me, Comrade; How Could You Be My Enemy?