Quotes from Erich Maria Remarque

It's odd,' she murmured, 'but as long as we don't forget that we're falling and falling, nothing is lost. Life seems to love paradoxes - when we think we're perfectly safe, we're always ridiculous and on the verge of a tumble; but when we know we're lost, life showers gifts on us. Then we don't have to do a thing - it runs after us like a poodle.

There behind me on the stretchers my comrades are now lying and still they call. It is peace, yet they must die. But I, I am trembling with joy and am not ashamed. —And that is odd. Because none can ever wholly feel what another suffers—is that the reason why wars perpetually recur? 2

He looked at me sideways. "You mean, and then mixed things up a bit? Never apologise. Never talk. Send flowers. No letter. Only flowers. They cover up everything. Even graves.

Pasaulis niekada neatrodo toks gražus, kaip t? akimirk?, kaii j? paliekame, kai jums atima laisv?

Mes gavome dovan? ugn?, nes mumyse buvo kažkas dieviško. O dabar mes slepiame j?, nes žudome savyje t? dievišk? dalelyt?.

Laikas - tai silpnutis mirties ekstraktas, kuris iš l?to skverbiasi ? mus kaip nestiprus narkotikas. Iš pradži? jis gaivina, ir mes net pradedame tik?ti, kad esame nemirtingi, bet lašas po lašo, diena po dienos jis tampa vienu lašu, viena diena stipresnis ir pavirsta r?gštimi, drums?ian?ia ir nuodijan?ia m?s? krauj?.

Now time is standing still. We've torn it in two. Now only we two are here; we two, you and me and no one else.

What's going on outside, Ravic?" "Nothing new, Kate. The world goes on eagerly preparing for suicide and at the same time deluding itself about what it's doing." "Will there be war?" "Everyone knows that there will be war. What one does not yet know is when. Everyone expects a miracle." Ravic smiled. "Never before have I seen so many politicians who believe in miracles as at present

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 uncompromising than the big fellows.

Regret is the most useless thing in the world. One cannot recall anything. And one cannot rectify anything. Otherwise we would all be saints. Life did not intend to make us perfect. Whoever is perfect belongs in a museum." Joan

It's funny how much of the miseries of this world are caused by short people –they are so much more quick-tempered and difficult to get on than the tall ones.

Vienatv? ieško kelion?s draugo, neklausdama, kas jis. Kas to nesupranta, tas niekada nebuvo vienišas, o tik vienas.

But you will understand me anyways, even without words. Everything is so new to me that I cannot express it; I didn't know that my breathe could love, that my nails could love, that even my death could love. And I don't care how much it will last, or whether I can hold it or not, or whether I will be able to express it properly.

Žmogus nesi jau toks svarbus. - Nesvarbus? - Švarcas v?l pak?l? sutrikus? veid?. - Nesvarbus? Žinoma, ne! Bet malon?kite pasakyti man, kas gi tuomet svarbu, jeigu gyvenimas nebesvarbus? - Niekas, - atsakiau žinodamas, kad tai ir teisyb?, ir ne. - Tiktai mes patys suteikiame viskam vert?.

He it is still and yet it is not he any longer. His features have become uncertain and faint, like a photographic plate from which two pictures have been taken. Even his voice sounds like ashes.

How various is a face; but an hour ago it was strange and it is now touched with a tenderness that comes, not from it, but from out of the night, the world and the blood, all these things seem to shine in it together.

Osje?ao sam se trom i spor i mrzio sam sebe što Heleni ne mogu bolje da pokažem koliko je volim ti tom trenutku. Morala je misliti da oklijevam zato što je ne želim, a ne zato što je toliko mnogo želim.

While they taught that duty to one's country is the greatest thing, we already knew that death-throes are stronger.

it would be like gazing at the photograph of a dead comrade; those are his features, it is his face, and the days we spent together take on a mournful life in the memory; but the man himself it is not.

Our life alternates between billets and the front. We have almost grown accustomed to it; war is the cause of death like cancer and tuberculosis, like influenza and dysentery. The deaths are merely

It brings a lump into the throat to see how they go over, and run and fall. A man would like to spank them, they are so stupid, and to take them by the arm and lead them away from here where they have no business to be. They wear grey coats and trousers and boots, but for most of them the uniform is far too big, it hangs on their limbs, their shoulders are too narrow, their bodies too slight; no uniform was ever made to these childish measurements.

And this I know: all these things that now, while we are still in the war, sink down in us like a stone, after the war shall waken again, and then shall begin the disentanglement of life and death.

Not everyone's life is like a house that belongs to him and that he can go on decorating ever more richly with the furniture of his memory. Some people live in hotels, in many hotels. The years close behind them like hotel doors— and the only thing that remains is a little courage and no regrets.

Many slept crouching and the lucky one was he whose bedfellows died in the evening. They were then carried away, and for one night he could stretch out until new arrivals came.