We Have So Much To Say, And

A Man Can Gasp Out His Life Beside You-and You Feel None Of It. Pity, Sympathy, Sure-but You Don't Feel The Pain. Your Belly Is Whole And That's What Counts. A Half-yard Away Someone's World Is Snuffled Out In Roaring Agony-and You Feel Nothing. That's The Misery Of The World.

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

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.

I, Too, Am Going To Go Away Soon,' She Says, 'i Am Weary And Weary Of My Weariness. Everything Is Beginning To Be A Little Empty And Full Of Leave-taking And Melancholy And Waiting.

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