To Me The Front Is A Mysterious

No Soldier Outlives A Thousand Chances. But Every Soldier Believes In Chance And Trusts His Luck.

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 Did Not Want To Think So Much About Her. I Wanted To Take Her As An Unexpected, Delightful Gift, That Had Come And Would Go Again — Nothing More. I Meant Not To Give Room To The Thought That It Could Ever Be More. I Knew Too Well That All Love Has The Desire For Eternity And That Therein Lies Its Eternal Torment. Nothing Lasts. Nothing.

The Music Enchanted The Air. It Was Like The South Wind, Like A Warm Night, Like Swelling Sails Beneath The Stars, Completely And Utterly Unreal... It Made Everything Spacious And Colourful, The Dark Stream Of Life Seemed Pulsing In It; There Were No Burdens Any More, No Limits; There Existed Only Glory And Melody And Love, So That One Simply Could Not Realize That, At The Same Time As This Music Was, Outside There Ruled Poverty And Torment And Despair.

This Book Is To Be Neither An Accusation Nor A Confession, And Least Of All An Adventure, For Death Is Not An Adventure To Those Who Stand Face To Face With It. It Will Try Simply To Tell Of A Generation Of Men Who, Even Though They May Have Escaped Shells, Were Destroyed By The War.