Quotes About Youth

our heads were full of nebulous ideas, which cast an idealized, almost romantic glow over life

I glance at my boots. They are big and clumsy, the breeches are tucked into them, and standing up one looks well-built and powerful in these great drainpipes. But when we go bathing and strip, suddenly we have slender legs again and slight shoulders. We are no longer soldiers but little more than boys; no one would believe that we could carry packs.

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.

Elhagyatottak vagyunk, akár a gyermek, és tapasztaltak, mint az öregember. Durvák, szomorúak és fölületesek vagyunk – azt hiszem, el vagyunk veszve.

Noored ei tahagi, et neid mõistetataks; nad tahavad jääda sellisteks nagu nad on. Täiskasvanu, kes neile liiga pealetükkivalt läheneb, muutub nende silmis niisama naeruväärseks kui lapsekleiti kandes. Me võime tunda koos noortega, kuid noored ei tunne koos meiega. See on nende pääsemine.

we stood on the threshold of life. And so it would seem. We had as yet taken no root. The war swept us away. For the others, the older men, it is but an interruption. They are able to think beyond it. We, however, have been gripped by it and do not know what the end may be. We know only that in some strange and melancholy way we have become a waste land.

And even if these scenes of our youth were given back to use we would hardly know what to do. The tender, secret influence that passed from them into us could not rise again. We might be amongst them and move in them; we might remember and love them and be stirred by the sight of them. But 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

What has Kantorek [their teacher] written to you?' Muller asks him [Kropp]. He laughs. 'We are the Iron Youth.' We all three smile bitterly . . . Yes, that's what they think, these hundred thousand Kantoreks! Iron Youth! Youth! We are none of us more than twenty years old. But young? Youth? That is long ago. We are old folk.

Der junge Tag hauchte von weit her seinen reinen Atem über die dreckigen Höfe und die rauchigen Dächer in das Fenster, und es war immer noch Wald und Leben darin.

Kantorek would say that we stood on the threshold of life. And so it would seem. We had as yet taken no root. The war swept us away. For the others, the older men, it is but an interruption. They are able to think beyond it. We, however, have been gripped by it and do not know what the end may be. We know only that in some strange and melancholy way we have become a wasteland.

It's a primary law of this world that the old rule the young, that one must serve mine's time. It is no question of ability. Else what would become of the old dodderers who cling to power?

On sekiz ya??nda idik; dünyay?, hayat? sevmeye baÅŸlam??t?k, sevdiÄŸimiz bu ÅŸeylere kurÅŸun s?kmak zorunda kald?k. Patlayan ilk mermiler kalbimize sapland?. Çal??ma, çaba, ilerleme kap?lar? kapand? bize. Biz bunlara art?k inanm?yoruz, biz harbe inan?yoruz.

das verlorene Bereitsein meiner Jugend

Iron Youth. Youth! We are none of us more than twenty years old. But young? Youth? That is long ago. We are old folk.

Ya no somos jóvenes. Ya no queremos conquistar el mundo. Somos fugitivos. Huimos de nosotros mismos. De nuestra vida. Teníamos dieciocho años y empezábamos a amar el mundo y la existencia; tuvimos que disparar contra eso. La primera granada que explosionó, lo hizo en nuestro corazón. Estamos al margen de la actividad, del esfuerzo, del progreso. Ya no creemos en nada de eso; creemos en la guerra.

That is Franz Kemmerich, nineteen and a half years old, he doesn't want to die. Let him not die!

Kantorek would say that we stood on the threshold of life. And so it would seem. We had as yet taken no root. The war swept us away. For the others, the older men, it is but an interruption. They are able to think beyond it. We, however, have been gripped by it and do not know what the end may be. We know only that in some strange and melancholy way we have become a waste land. All the same, we are not often sad.

For us lads of eighteen they ought to have been mediators and guides to the world of maturity, the world of work, of duty, of culture, of progress—to the future. We often made fun of them and played jokes on them, but in our hearts we trusted them. The idea of authority, which they represented, was associated in our minds with a greater insight and a more humane wisdom.

But the first death we saw shattered this belief. We had to recognize that our generation was more to be trusted than theirs. They surpassed us only in phrases and in cleverness. The first bombardment showed us our mistake, and under it the world as they had taught it to us broke in pieces.

The youngster will hardly survive the carrying, and at the most he will only last a few days. What he has gone through so far is nothing to what he's in for till he dies. Now he is numb and feels nothing. In an hour he will become one screaming bundle of intolerable pain. Every day that he can live will be a howling torture. And to whom does it matter whether he has them or not—— I nod. "Yes, Kat, we ought to put him out of his misery.

K?das ir j?su domas par dz?vi? [Ludvigs jaut? z?rciniekam Vilkem] - No r?ta cit?das nek? vakar?, ziem? cit?das nek? vasar?, pirms ?šanas cit?das nek? p?c tam un jaun?b? droši vien cit?das nek? vecum?.

And even if these scenes of our youth were given back to us, we would hardly know what to do. The tender, secret influence that passed from them into us could not rise again. We might be amongst them and move in them and be stirred by the sight of them. But it would be like gazing at the photograph of a dead comrade; those are his features, it is his face, and the days spent together take on a mournful life in the memory; but the man himself it is not.

He is right. We are not youth any longer. We don't want to take the world by storm. We are fleeing. We fly from ourselves. From our life. We were eighteen and had begun to love life and the world; and we had to shoot it to pieces. The first bomb, the first explosion, burst in our hearts. We are cut off from activity, from striving, from progress. We believe in such things no longer, we believe in the war.

And even if these scenes of our youth were given back to us we would hardly know what to do. The tender, secret influence that passed from them into us could not rise again. We might be amongst them and move in them; we might remember and love them and be stirred by the sight of them. But 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.