All Quiet on the Western Front: A Novel

The mud isn’t so bad, at first. He wades through it with barely a grimace. It’s no worse than Agincourt, or the Somme. At least there’s no bullets flying, no hot shell fragments raining down or French coursers charging at him. The only problem is the mail, which weighs him down. And Christ, it’s a hot day. Summers never used to be this hot, he’s su

In war, men lose what makes them great. Their creativity. Their wisdom. Their joy. All that’s left is their utility. War is not monstrous for making corpses of men so much as it is for making machines of them. And woe to those who have no use in war except to feed the machines.

Ses lettres, comme celles des autres Poilus, étaient de résignation. Elles disaient que c’était le destin, qu’il fallait servir la patrie et qu’on n’y pouvait rien. Étions-nous capables de cela ? De cette retenue, de cette acceptation ? J’avais l’impression que non. Nous avions perdu nos nerfs. Quelque chose s’était produit depuis l’après-guerre. L

OUR FIRST ACT AS FREE MEN was to throw ourselves onto the provisions. That’s all we thought about. No thought of revenge, or of parents. Only of bread. And even when we were no longer hungry, not one of us thought of revenge. The next day, a few of the young men ran into Weimar to bring back some potatoes and clothes—and to sleep with girls. But st