99+ Erich Maria Remarque Quotes on Three Comrades, All Quiet on the Western Front and Arch of triumph - Quotes.pub

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The coffin, it shall protect me, though Death himself lies in it.

Hard... What does he mean by hard? And am I like that? Or is it only that I have no time for the fraud of so-called good manners, which strews a little glitter over black truths, and thinks that that has made them disappear.

Not everyone’s life is like a house that belongs to him and that he can go on decorating ever more richly with the furniture of his memory. Some people live in hotels, in many hotels. The years close behind them like hotel doors – and the only thing that remains is a little courage and no regrets.

He it is still and yet it is not he any longer. His features have become uncertain and faint, like a photographic plate from which two pictures have been taken. Even his voice sounds like ashes.

Nachts ist man das, was man eigentlich sein soll; nicht das, was man geworden ist.

We thought to build us houses, we desired gardens with terraces, for we wanted to look out upon the sea and to feel the wind, but we did not think that a house needs foundations. We are like those abandoned fields full of shell holes in France, no less peaceful than the other ploughed lands about them, but in them are lying still the buried explosives, and until these shall have been dug out and cleared away, to plough will be a danger both to plougher and ploughed.

As usual in times of war, fear, and affliction, the individual human being had ceased to exist; only one thing counted: a valid passport.

But is the primary law of this world, where the old rule the young, that one must serve one’s time. It is no question of ability. Else what would become of old dodderers who cling to their power?

And in the night you realize, when you wake out of a dream, overcome and captivated by the enchantment of visions that crowd in on each other, just how fragile a handhold, how tenuous a boundary separates us from darkness – we are little flames, inadequately sheltered by thin walls from the tempest of dissolution and insensibility in which we flicker and are often all but extinguished. Then the muted sounds of battle surrounds us, and we creep into ourselves and stare wide-eyed into the night.

If only they would not look at one so-What great misery can be in two such small spots, no bigger than a man’s thumb-in their eyes!

I feel excited; but I do not want to be, for that is not right. I want that quiet rapture again. I want to feel the same powerful, nameless urge that I used to feel when I turned to my books. The breath of desire that then arose from the coloured backs of the books, shall fill me again, melt the heavy, dead lump of lead that lies somewhere in me and waken again the impatience of the future, the quick joy in the world of thought, it shall bring back again.

Ravic emptied his glass. He got a package of cigarettes out of his pocket, took one out and lit it. His hands were not yet steady. He flung the match on the floor and ordered another calvados. That face, that smiling face which he thought he had just seen again – he must have been.

Cans. We don’t have to think anymore. Everything is premeditated, pre-chewed, pre-felt. Cans. All you have to do is open them. Delivered to your home three times a day. Nothing any more to cultivate yourself, or let grow and boil on the fire of questions, of doubt, and of desire. Cans.

What’s going on outside, Ravic?” “Nothing new, Kate. The world goes on eagerly preparing for suicide and at the same time deluding itself about what it’s doing.” “Will there be war?” “Everyone knows that there will be war. What one does not yet know is when. Everyone expects a miracle.” Ravic smiled. “Never before have I seen so many politicians who believe in miracles as at present.

Ravic knew the danger; he knew whither he was going and he also knew that tomorrow he would resist again – but suddenly in this night, in this hour of his return from a lost Ararat into the blood-smell of coming destruction, everything became nameless. Danger was danger and not danger; fate was at the same time a sacrifice and the deity to whom one sacrificed. And tomorrow was an unknown world.

You see,” said Otto. “That’s the gift of age. Tears and laughter – quick changes. No resentments. Something one might well learn,” he observed meditatively.

I knew that the late Zalewski, rest his soul, despite his motto, literally drank himself to death. His wife had on other occasions told me so often enough. But that didn’t worry her. She used her husband as other folk do the Bible – for quotations. And the longer he was dead the harder she worked him. He now had something for all occasions – just like the Bible.

It’s not much. You begin by thinking there is something extraordinary about it. But you’ll find out, when you’ve been out in the world a while longer, unhappiness is the commonest thing there is.

That’s how we are! Afraid of our feelings. And when we become aware of them we immediately think we are swindlers.

She had no country, Ravic thought. But she did not need one either. She was at home on all ships. She was at home wherever there was courage and conflict and even defeat if it was without despair. She was not only the goddess of victory, she was also the goddess of all adventurers and the goddess of refugees – so long as they did not give up.

That is a generation’s difference these days,” Ferdinand continued. “A lifetime’s difference. A thousand years’ difference. What do you children understand of existence? You’re afraid even of your own feelings. You don’t write letters – you telephone; you don’t dream – you go for week-end excursions; you are rational in love and irrational in politics – a pitiable race.

He pointed to the sky in which Mars twinkled above the darkening roofs, large and red. “Yes, and they say that that fellow up there is closer to our earth than he has been for many years.” He laughed. “Soon we’ll read that somewhere a child has been born with a mole like a sword. And that it was raining blood somewhere else. The only thing missing now is the enigmatic comet of the Middle Ages to make all the ominous signs complete.

But you will understand me anyways, even without words. Everything is so new to me that I cannot express it; I didn’t know that my breathe could love, that my nails could love, that even my death could love. And I don’t care how much it will last, or whether I can hold it or not, or whether I will be able to express it properly.

Help when you can; do everything then – but when you can no longer do anything, forget it! Turn away! Pull yourself together. Compassion is meant for quiet times. Not when life is at stake. Bury the dead and devour life! You’ll still need it. Mourning is one thing, facts are another. One doesn’t mourn less when one sees the facts and accepts them. That is how one survives.

The heroes of ancient Greece wept more often than our silly, sentimental modern women. They knew it did no good to hold it back. Our ideal is the impassive courage of a statue. Unnecessary. Be sad and then you’ll soon be over it.

Children, that’s what a man needs – children, who know nothing about it.

I had the feeling of slipping down a smooth bottomless pit. It had nothing to do with Breuer and the people. It had nothing to do with Pat even. It was the melancholy secret that reality can arouse desires but never satisfy them; that love begins with a human being but does not end in him; and that everything can be there: a human being, love, happiness, life – and that yet in some terrible way it is always too little, and grows ever less the more it seems.

But I also knew that there was no going back. One can never go back; nothing and no one is ever the same. All that remained was an occasional evening of sadness, the sadness that we all feel because everything passes and because man is the only animal who knows it.

No one will understand us – because in front of us there is a generation of men who did, it is true, share the years out here with us, but who already had a bed and a job and who are going back to their old positions, where they will forget all about the war – and behind us, a new generation is growing up, one like we used to be, and that generation will be strangers to us and will push us aside.

Here where you stand, a young Etruscan woman stood in just the same way three thousand years ago – and the wind came in just this way from Africa and chased the light across the ocean.

We were never very demonstrative in our family; poor folk who toil and are full of cares are not so. It is not their way to protest what they already know. When my mother says to me “dear boy,” it means much more than when another uses it.

Between five and ten recruits fall to every old hand.

You can’t know anything beforehand. The incurable can survive the healthy. Life is a strange phenomenon.

Educationalists who think they can understand the young are enthusiasts. Youth does not want to be understood; it wants only to be let alone. It preserves itself immune against the insidious bacillus of being understood. The grown-up who would approach it too importunately is as ridiculous in its eyes as if he had put on children’s clothes. We may feel with our youth, but youth does not feel with us. That is its salvation.

Sweet words. Gentle deceptive balm. Help, love, to belong together, to come back again – words, sweet words. Nothing but words. How many words existed for this simple, wild, cruel attraction of two bodies! What a rainbow of imagination, lies, sentiment, and self-deception enclosed it!

The pillars of human society are covetousness, fear, and corruption,” retorted Grau. “Man is evil, but loves the good – when others do it.

Night is nature’s protest against the leprosy of civilization, Gottfried. No decent man can withstand it for long. He begins to notice that he has been turned out of the silent company of the trees, the animals, the stars, and unconscious life.

There was always a screen behind which one could hide – a superior who in turn had his superior – orders, instructions, duties, commands – and finally the many-headed monster, morale, necessity, hard reality, responsibility, or whatever it was called – there was always a screen behind which to evade the simple law of humanity.

Thoughtfully I resume my patrolling to and fro between the benches. Now and again I catch a searching glance above the edge of a copy book. I stand still near the stove and look at the young faces. Most of them are good-natured and ordinary, some are sly, others stupid; but in a few there is a flicker of something brighter. For these life will not be so obvious and all things will not go so smoothly. Suddenly.

Home – what other home existed for one who belonged nowhere, but the stormy one in the heart of another for a short time? Was not this the reason why love, when it struck the hearts of the homeless, shook and possessed them so completely – because they had nothing else? Had he not for this very reason tried to avoid it? And had it not followed him and overtaken him and struck him down? It was harder to rise again on the slippery ice of a foreign land than on familiar and accustomed ground.

We are like those abandoned fields full of shell holes in France, no less peaceful than other ploughed lands about them, but in them are lying still the buried explosives, and until these shall have been dug out and cleared away, to plough will be a danger both to the plougher and the ploughed.

Katczinsky is right when he says it would not be such a bad war if only one could get a little more sleep.

The sergeant major.

To be alone – the eternal refrain of life. It wasn’t better or worse than anything else. One talked too much about it. One was always and never alone. A violin, suddenly – somewhere out of a twilight – in a garden on the hills around Budapest. The heavy scent of chestnuts. The wind. And dreams crouched on one’s shoulders like young owls, their eyes becoming lighter in the dusk. A night that never became night. The hour when all women were beautiful.

It’s funny how much of the miseries of this world are caused by short people –they are so much more quick-tempered and difficult to get on than the tall ones.

Now time is standing still. We’ve torn it in two. Now only we two are here; we two, you and me and no one else.

An accordion player posted himself at the curb and played La Paloma. The rug peddlers appeared with silken Keshans over their shoulders. A boy sold pistachios at the tables. It looked as it had always looked – until the newspaper boys came. The papers were almost torn from their hands and a few seconds later the terrace, with all the unfolded papers, appeared as if buried under a swarm of huge, white, bloodless moths sitting on their victims greedily, with noiseless flapping wings.

He looked around. The room, a few suitcases, some belongings, a handful of well-read books – a man needed few things to live. And it was good not to get used to many things when life was unsettled. Again and again one had to abandon them or they were taken away. One should be ready to leave every day. That was the reason he had lived alone – when one was on the move one should not have anything that could bind one. Nothing that could stir the heart. The adventure – but nothing more.

Below there are cyclists, lorries, men; it is a grey street and a grey subway; – it affects me as though it were my mother.

There behind me on the stretchers my comrades are now lying and still they call. It is peace, yet they must die. But I, I am trembling with joy and am not ashamed. – And that is odd. Because none can ever wholly feel what another suffers – is that the reason why wars perpetually recur? 2.

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