Why do they never tell us that you are poor devils like us, that your mothers are just as anxious as ours, and that we have the same fear of death, and the same dying and the same agony – Forgive me, comrade; how could you be my enemy?
It’s all rot that they put in the war-news about the good humour of the troops, how they are arranging dances almost before they are out of the front-line. We don’t act like that because we are in a good humour: we are in a good humour because otherwise we should go to pieces.
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.
We agree that it’s the same for everyone; not only for us here, but everywhere, for everyone who is of our age; to some more, and to others less. It is the common fate of our generation.
Comrade, I say to the dead man, but I say it calmly, today you tomorrow me, but if I come out of it, comrade, I will fight against this, that has struck us both down; from you taken life-and from me-? Life also. I promise you, comrade. It shall never happen again.
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.
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.
Extraordinary creatures you young people are, altogether. The past you hate, the present you despise, and the future is a matter of indifference. How do you suppose that can lead to any good end?
Some day perhaps our time will be known as the age of irony. Not the witty irony of the eighteenth century, but the stupid or malignant irony of a crude age of technological progress and cultural regression.
The State, that immune betrayer, which embezzles billions and jails anyone who defrauds it of as much as five marks, would find some pretext for not paying.
Give ’em all the same grub and all the same pay and the war would be over and done in a day.
It is very queer that the unhappiness of the world is so often brought on by small men. They are so much more energetic and compromising than the big fellows.
One is never too young. Only always too old.
Life did not intend to make us perfect. Whoever is perfect belongs in a museum.
Strange how complicated we can make things just to avoid showing what we feel!
It’s only terrible to have nothing to wait for.
For a moment I had a strange intuition that just this, and in a real, profound sense, is life; and perhaps happiness even – love with a mixture of sadness, reverence, and silent knowledge.
No matter how improbable an assertion is, if it is made with enough assurance it has an affect.
Never do anything complicated when something simple will serve as well. It’s one of the most important secrets of living.
We have our dreams because without them we could not bear the truth.