All Quiet on the Western Front

by Erich Maria Remarque

expressions of life are permitted only insofar as they contribute to the preservation of life, and they are necessarily directed toward that end. Everything else is forbidden, because it would consume energy unnecessarily. This is the only way for us to save ourselves, and I often sit before myself as if before a stranger, when in silent hours the mysterious reflection of the past, like a tarnished mirror, reveals the outlines of my present existence as something outside of me, and then I marvel at how this nameless, active thing that we call life has adapted itself to even this form. All other sorts of expression are hibernating, life is nothing but a constant vigil against the threat of death; it has turned us into thinking animals in order to give us the weapon of instinct; it has dulled our senses to keep us from cracking when faced with the horror that would overtake us if we were thinking clearly; it has awakened in us a sense of camaraderie, so that we may escape the abyss of loneliness; it has given us the indifference of savages, so that in spite of everything, we may perceive each positive moment and store it up as a reserve against the onslaught of nothingness. Thus, we live a closed, hard existence, a life confined to the very surface, and only occasionally does something happen that strikes sparks. But then, all of a sudden, a flame of heavy and terrible longing pierces us.