"I took a sheet of paper from the drawer and began to reckon.Childhood,school,- an unresolvable complex of things and happenings - so remote,another world, not real any more.Real life began only in 1916.I had just joined the Army - eighteen years of age,thin and lanky.And a snotty sergeant-major who used to make me practise,on-the-hands-down,over and over again in the mud of the ploughed fields at the back of the barracks...One evening my mother came to the barracks to visit me;but she had to wait for me over an hour,bacause I had failed to pack my kit the regulation way,and as punishement had been ordered to scrub out the latrines.She offered to help me,but that was not allowed.She cried, and I was so tired that I feel asleep as I sat there beside her.
1917.Flanders.Mittendorf and I bought a bootle of red wine at the canteen...We intended to celebrate.But we never got so far,for early that morning the English bombardment began.Koster was wounded about midday;..."
What do you mean?Is the idealism some kind of supstitution for "full feeling"of life?Can war do that man become the idealist or this is predetermined by human's character?/Heraclitus: character is the fate of man/.
