Our Thoughts Are Clay, They Are Moulded

The Room Shall Speak, It Must Catch Me Up And Hold Me, I Want To Feel That I Belong Here, I Want To Hearken And Know When I Go Back To The Front Line That The War Will Sink Down, Be Drowned Utterly In The Great Home-coming Tide, Know That It Will Then Be Past For Ever, And Not Gnaw Us Continually, That It Will Have None But An Outward Power Over Us...nothing Stirs; Listless And Wretched, Like A Condemned Man, I Sit There And The Past Withdraws Itself. And At The Same Time I Fear To Importune It Too Much, Because I Do Not Know What Might Happen Then. I Am A Soldier, I Must Cling To That.

It's Only Terrible To Have Nothing To Wait For.

For Us Lads Of Eighteen They Ought To Have Been Mediators And Guides To The World Of Maturity, The World Of Work, Of Duty, Of Culture, Of Progress -- To The Future.

Little By Little Things Began To Assume A New Aspect. The Sense Of Insecurity Vanished, Words Came Of Themselves, I Was No Longer So Painfully Conscious Of Everything I Said. I Drank On And Felt The Great Soft Wave Approach And Embrace Me; The Dark Hour Began To Fill With Pictures And Stealthily The Noiseless Procession Of Dreams Appeared Again Superimposed On The Dreary, Grey Landscape Of Existence.

Am I Jealous? He Thought, Astonished. Jealous Of The Chance Object To Which She Has Attached Herself? Jealous Of Something That Does Not Concern Me? One Can Be Jealous Of A Love That Has Turned Away, But Not Of That To Which It Has Turned.