All Quiet on the Western Front

… is a novel by Erich Maria Remarque about the First World War, narrated by Paul Baumer, a 19 years old German schoolboy-soldier, giving us an account of “a generation that was destroyed by the war – even those of it who survived the shelling”, with a common enemy being Death. 

He is right.  We’re no longer young men.  We’ve lost any desire to conquer the world.  We are refugees.  We are fleeing from ourselves.  From our lives.  We were eighteen years old, and we had just begun to love the world and to love being in it; but we had to shoot at it.  The first hell to land went straight for our hearts.  We’ve been cut off from real action, from getting on, from progress.  We don’t believe in those things any more; we believe in the war …

We have turned into dangerous animals.  We are not fighting, we are defending ourselves from annihilation.  We are not hurling our grenades against human beings – what do we know about all that in the heat of the moment? – the hands and the helmets that are after us belong to Death himself, and for the first time in three day we are able to look Death in the eyes, for the first time in three days we can defend ourselves against it, we are maddened with fury, not lying there waiting impotently for the executioner any more, we can destroy and we can kill to save ourselves, to save ourselves and to take revenge …

But here in the trenches we have lost that memory.  It no longer rises up from inside us – we are dead and the memory is far off on some distant horizon, an apparition, a puzzling reflection come to haunt us, something we are afraid of and which we love without hope.  It is strong, and our desire is strong; but it is unattainable, and we know it …

And even if someone were to give us it back, that landscape of our youth, we wouldn’t have much idea of how to handle it.  The tender, secret forces that bound it to us cannot come back to life.  We should be in the landscape, wandering around; we should remember, and love it, and be moved by the sight of it.  But it would be just the sane as when we see a photograph of one of our own friends who has been killed, and we sop to think about it.  The features are his, the face is his, and the days we spent with him take on a deceptive life in our memories; but it isn't really him …

Nowadays we would no longer have any real links with the way we used to be.  It wasn’t the awareness of how beautiful it was that meant so much to us, or of how good the atmosphere was, but the feeling of community, the way we all felt a kinship with the objects and events of our existence.  That’s what set us apart and made our parents’ world a little difficult for us to understand; because somehow we were always gently bound up with that world, submissive to it all, and the smallest thing led us onwards along the path of eternity.  Perhaps it was just the privilege of our youth – we were not yet able to see any restrictions, and we could not admit to ourselves that things would ever come to and end; expectation was in our blood, and this meant that we were at one with our lives as the day went by …

Now we would wander around like strangers in those landscapes of our youth.  We have been consumed in the fires of reality, we perceive differences only in the way tradesmen do, and we see necessities like butchers. WE are free of care no longer – we are terrifyingly indifferent.  We might be present in that world, but would we be alive in it?

We are like children, who have been abandoned and we are as experienced as old men, we are coarse, unhappy, superficial – I think that we are lost. 

Des hommes et des dieux (of Gods and men) ...

... is a silent yet dynamic film by Xavier Beauvois about a group of Cistercian monks living harmoniously with their Muslim neighbours among the Atlas mountains, until the worldly forces descended ... Decisions regarding if they should stay or leave, how to act, what to trust, what to love linger throughout the film.  Towards the end, the following letter written by one of the monks was read ... 


"Should it ever befall me, and it could happen today, to be a victim of the terrorism swallowing up all foreigners here, I would like my community, my church, my family, to remember that my life was given to God and to his country. That the Unique Master of all life was no stranger to this brutal departure. And that my death is the same as so many other violent ones, consigned to the apathy of oblivion. I've lived enough to know, I am complicit in the evil that, alas, prevails over the world and the evil that will smite me blindly. I could never desire such a death. I could never feel gladdened that these people I love be accused randomly of my murder. I know the contempt felt for the people here, indiscriminately. And I know how Islam is distorted by a certain Islamism. This country, and Islam, for me are something different. They're a body and a soul. My death, of course, will quickly vindicate those who call me naïve or idealistic, but they must know that I will be freed of a burning curiosity and, God willing, will immerse my gaze in the Father's and contemplate with him his children of Islam as he sees them. This thank-you which encompasses my entire life includes you, of course, friends of yesterday and today, and you too, friend of last minute, who knew not what you were doing. Yes, to you as well I address this thank-you and this farewell which you envisaged. May we meet again, happy thieves in Paradise, if it pleases God the Father of us both. Amen. Insha'Allah". 

A heart so white ...

... by Javier Marias is beauitifully written, interweaving the boundaries of love, betrayal, miscommunication, introspection, things said and unsaid ... 


"We also miss each other (vaguely) when we're not together, she's one of those people (in everyone's life there are four or five such people whose loss one truly feels) to whom you're used to telling everything that happens to you, that is, one of those people you think about when something happens to you, be it funny or dramatic, and for whom you store events and anecdotes. You accept misfortunes gladly because you know you can tell those five people about them afterwards."

The Gathering ...

... a novel by Anne Enright is about childhood, death, desires, disappointment, fates, losses and memories, as a woman tried to come to terms with the suicide of Liam and her own emptiness ...


"But I do not want a different destiny from the one that has brought me here.  I do not want a different life.  I just want to be able to live it, that's all.  I want to wake up in the morning and fall asleep at night,  I want to make love to my husband again.  Because, for every time he wanted to undo me, there was love that put me back together again - put us both back together.  If I could just remember them too.  If I could remember each time, as you remember different places you have seen - some of them so amazing; exotic, or confusing, or still ... ....


Gatwick airport is not the best place to be gripped by a fear of flying.  But it seems that this is what is happening to me now; because you are up so high, in those things, and there is such a long way to fall.  Then again, I have been falling for months.  I have been falling into my own life, for months.  And I am about to hit it now."

Dis quand reviendras-tu?

... is the song at the end of "I have loved you so long" (Il y a longtemps que je t'aime) by Jean-Louis Aubert ... Sometimes, something just cannot return, once lost, they disappear into our memories ...

Voilà combien de jours, voilà combien de nuits,
Voilà combien de temps que tu es reparti,
Tu m'as dit cette fois, c'est le dernier voyage,
Pour nos cœurs déchirés, c'est le dernier naufrage,
Au printemps, tu verras, je serai de retour,
Le printemps, c'est joli pour se parler d'amour,
Nous irons voir ensemble les jardins refleuris,
Et déambulerons dans les rues de Paris,

Dis, quand reviendras-tu,
Dis, au moins le sais-tu,
Que tout le temps qui passe,
Ne se rattrape guère,
Que tout le temps perdu,
Ne se rattrape plus,

Le printemps s'est enfui depuis longtemps déjà,
Craquent les feuilles mortes, brûlent les feux de bois,
A voir Paris si beau dans cette fin d'automne,
Soudain je m'alanguis, je reve, je frissonne,
Je tangue, je chavire, et comme la rengaine,
Je vais, je viens, je vire, je me tourne, je me traîne,
Ton image me hante, je te parle tout bas,
Et j'ai le mal d'amour, et j'ai le mal de toi,

Dis, quand reviendras-tu,
Dis, au moins le sais-tu,
Que tout le temps qui passe,
Ne se rattrape guère,
Que tout le temps perdu,
Ne se rattrape plus,

J'ai beau t'aimer encore, j'ai beau t'aimer toujours,
J'ai beau n'aimer que toi, j'ai beau t'aimer d'amour,
Si tu ne comprends pas qu'il te faut revenir,
Je ferai de nous deux mes plus beaux souvenirs,
Je reprendrai la route, le monde m'émerveille,
J'irai me réchauffer à un autre soleil,
Je ne suis pas de celles qui meurent de chagrin,
Je n'ai pas la vertu des femmes de marins,

Dis, quand reviendras-tu,
Dis, au moins le sais-tu,
Que tout le temps qui passe,
Ne se rattrape guère,
Que tout le temps perdu,
Ne se rattrape plus...

Headlines ...

... in the past few weeks have been overwhelming; unrest, violence, destruction, nuclear ... and somehow, the line "it's not the news, OK" in Ingrid Olava's song can be so soothing ... 


I'm the words you can see when someone asks too much
I'm lights that are flashing I'm strangers passing by
I'm aeroplanes crashing I'm the guy explaining why

But hey hey it's not the news, OK?
So, hey hey, it's not the news
Cause all the headlines bow their heads and say
No there is nothing familiar but you've already been here
If God know no news today
Yet there is nothing familiar but you've already been here anyway

I'm the ink that is drying on pages torn apart
I'm the deer that is dying I'm the bullet in its heart
I am the golden street I am the stench
I am your nosebleed I am the revenge

But hey hey
It's not the news, OK?
So, hey hey, it's not the news

But all the headlines bow their heads and say
No there is nothing familiar but you've already been here
If God know no news today
Yet there is nothing familiar but you've already been here anyway
I've got so many things in my mind you won't believe

Snow ...

... by Orhan Pamuk is about a poet ... his wandering in Kars, searching for his silent soul, being lost together with the senseless politicians who are leading the courageous humanity to yet-another pitfall, while along the way, he encounters love, its associated pain, and the ever omnipotent presence of God ...

"After leaving Kars, Ka apparently read a number of books about snow.  One of his discoveries was that once a six-pronged snowflake crystallises it takes between eight and ten minutes for it to fall through the sky, loses its original shape and vanish.  When, with further enquiry, he discovered that the form of each snowflake is determined also by the temperature, the direction and strength of the wind, the altitude of the cloud, and any number of other mysterious forces, Ka decided that snowflakes have much in common with people ... ....

And by the time he was recording these thoughts in the notebooks, Ka was convinced that every life is like a snowflake: individual existences might look identical from afar, but to understand one's own eternally mysterious uniqueness one had only to plot the mysteries of one's own snowflake".

Strawberries ...

.. by Edwin Morgan ... reminds me of summer lights, berries, daisies, blue sky ...  

There were never strawberries
like the ones we had
that sultry afternoon
sitting on the step
of the open french window
facing each other
your knees held in mine
the blue plates in our laps
the strawberries glistening
in the hot sunlight
we dipped them in sugar
looking at each other
not hurrying the feast
for one to come
the empty plates
laid on the stone together
with the two forks crossed
and I bent towards you
sweet in that air
in my arms
abandoned like a child
from your eager mouth
the taste of strawberries
in my memory
lean back again
let me love you
let the sun beat
on our forgetfulness
one hour of all
the heat intense
and summer lightning
on the Kilpatrick hills
let the storm wash the plates

The Immoralist ...

... by Andre Gide has some interesting presecptives while the search of one's true identity continues ...

There are thousands way of life and each of us can know only one. It's madness to envy other people's happiness. Happiness doesn't come off the peg, it has to be made to measure. I leave tomorrow. I know- I have tried to tailor this happiness to fit me ... You hang on to the comfortable happiness of home life.


People don’t want to be like themselves. They all choose a model to imitate, or, if they don’t choose a model themselves, they accept one ready-made.

George Eliot ...

What greater thing is there for two human souls

than to feel that they are joined together to strengthen

each other in all labor, to minister to each other in all sorrow,

to share with each other in all gladness,

to be one with each other in the

silent unspoken memories?

The beauty of psychiatry ...

... is wonderfully summed up by Lyall Watson ...


"If the brain were so simple we could understand it, we would be so simple we couldn't." 

Wislawa Szymborska ...

... "Going Home" describes my stay at my parents' during this snowy month, as my flat waits for its new coat to be perfectly tailored  ... 


He came home. Said nothing. 
It was clear, though, that something had gone wrong. 
He lay down fully dressed. 
Pulled the blanket over his head. 
Tucked up his knees. 
He's nearly forty, but not at the moment. 
He exists just as he did inside his mother's womb, 
clad in seven walls of skin, in sheltered darkness. 
Tomorrow he'll give a lecture 
on homeostasis in metagalactic cosmonautics. 
For now, though, he has curled up and gone to sleep.


... while "The Three Oddest Words" keeps you wonder about the beauty of languages ... 


When I pronounce the word Future,
the first syllable already belongs to the past.

When I pronounce the word Silence,
I destroy it.

When I pronounce the word Nothing,
I make something no non-being can hold.

Beautiful winter ...

... wavers its magical wand among the silent falling snow flakes ... 


"Never are voices so beautiful as on a winter's evening, when dusk almost hides the body, and they seem to issue from nothingness with a note of intimacy seldom heard by day." - Virginia Woolf ...


... while waiting for shopot zvyozd  ("whispering of the stars", as your breaths freeze and fall onto the ground in Siberia) ... 

On the Road ...

... by Jack Kerouac ...

... "I shambled after as I've been doing all my life after people who interest me, because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes 'Awww!' ...

The most difficult of all our tasks ...

For one human being to love another; that is perhaps the most difficult of all our tasks, the ultimate, the last test and proof, the work for which all other work is but preparation.
~ Rainer Maria Rilke

Love in the Time of Cholera ...

... by Gabriel Garcia Marquez

Together they had overcome the daily incomprehension, the instantaneous hatred, the reciprocal nastiness and fabulous flashes of glory in the conjugal conspiracy. It was the time when they loved each other best, without hurry or excess, when both were most conscious of and grateful for their incredible victories over adversity.  Life would still present them with other mortal trials, of course, but that no longer mattered: they were on the other shore.

First Morning of Spring ...

is the title of a beautiful print by Rob Ryan ...

... especially if you have a bottle of tears stored somewhere ...

... but with a specific end date, as you slowly coming to the conclusion that ....

Delay ...

... by Elizabeth Jennings is simple but intriguing in the wonderful combination of encounters in life ...

The radiance of the star that leans on me
Was shining years ago. The light that now
Glitters up there my eyes may never see,
And so the time lag teases me with how

Love that loves now may not reach me until
Its first desire is spent. The star's impulse
Must wait for eyes to claim it beautiful
And love arrived may find us somewhere else.

The Word ...

... by Tony Hoagland ... just reading it makes you smile and longs for the simple wondrous things in life, especially sunshine ...

Down near the bottom
of the crossed-out list
of things you have to do today,

between "green thread"
and "broccoli" you find
that you have penciled "sunlight."

Resting on the page, the word
is as beautiful, it touches you
as if you had a friend

and sunlight were a present
he had sent you from some place distant
as this morning -- to cheer you up,

and to remind you that,
among your duties, pleasure
is a thing,

that also needs accomplishing
Do you remember?
that time and light are kinds

of love, and love
is no less practical
than a coffee grinder

or a safe spare tire?
Tomorrow you may be utterly
without a clue

but today you get a telegram,
from the heart in exile
proclaiming that the kingdom

still exists,
the king and queen alive,
still speaking to their children,

- to any one among them
who can find the time,
to sit out in the sun and listen.

Nietzsche asked ...

... What else is love, but understanding and rejoicing in the fact that another person lives, acts and experiences otherwise than we do?