Quotes About Youth

To-day we would pass through the scenes of our youth like travellers. We are burnt up by hard facts; like tradesmen we understand distinctions, and like butchers, necessities. We are no longer untroubled—we are indifferent.

Jestem m?ody, mam dwadzie?cia lat; ale z ?ycia nie znam nic poza rozpacz?, ?mierci?, trwog? i spojeniem w jeden ?a?cuch najniedorzeczniejszej p?asko?ci z ca?? otch?ani? cierpienia.

Avevamo diciott'anni, e cominciavamo ad amare il mondo, l'esistenza: ci hanno costretti a spararle contro.

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.

Nachdenklich wandere ich wieder zwischen den Bänken hin und her. Ab und zu trifft mich über einen Heftrand hinweg ein forschender Blick. Ich bleibe am Ofen stehen und sehe mir die jungen Gesichter an. Die meisten sind brav und mittelmäßig, manche verschmitzt, andere dumm - aber in einigen flacker etwas Helleres. Denen wird in Leben nicht alles so selbstverständlich erscheinen und nicht alles so glatt gehen.

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.

Albert expresses it: "The war has ruined us for everything." 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.

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 war.

I am young, I am twenty years old; yet I know nothing of life but despair, death, fear, and fatuous superficiality cast over an abyss of sorrow.

Ta sammub uhkelt minema, sest tal õnnestus meid, viimase klassi gümnasiste, sõnalahingus võita. Tõepoolest, tema arvamus on siin tüüpiline, sellega kohtud siin üha jälle ega oska ka midagi arukat vastata, sest kui asja üksnes sellest küljest võtta, siis kaob arusaamine teistest seostest.

And even if these scenes of our youth were given back to us we would hardly know what to do . . . 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 itself it is not. We could never regain the old intimacy with those scenes.

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 war.

Non siamo più spensierati, ma atrocemente indifferenti. Saremmo lì, nel paesaggio della nostra giovinezza, ma sapremmo viverci? Abbandonati come bambini, disillusi come anziani. Siamo rozzi, tristi, superficiali. Io penso che siamo perduti.

I implore them with my eyes: Speak to me—take me up—take me, Life of my Youth—you who are care-free, beautiful—receive me again— I wait, I wait. Images float through my mind, but they do not grip me, they are mere shadows and memories. Nothing—nothing—

Über diesen Feldern scheinen die verlorenen Jahre weiter zu bestehen, die Jahre, die nicht gewesen sind, die keine Ruhe finden – der Schrei der Jugend wurde zu früh erstickt, fand ein zu jähes Ende. In der Nacht brechen sie aus der Erde hervor wie geisterhafte Irrlichter.

I want to feel the same powerful, nameless urge that I used to feel when I turned to my books. The breath of desire that then arose from the coloured backs of books, shall fill me again, melt the heavy, dead lump of lead that lies somewhere in me and waken in me the impatience of the future, the quick joy in the world of thought, it shall bring back again the lost eagerness of my youth. I sit and wait.

With our young, awakened eyes, we saw that the classical conception of the fatherland held by our teachers resolved itself here into a renunciation of personality such as one would not ask of the meanest servants.

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.

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 18 and had begun to love life and the world; and we had to shoot it to pieces.

What has Kantorek written to you?" Müller asks him. He laughs. "We are the Iron Youth." We all three smile bitterly, Kropp rails: he is glad that he can speak. Yes, that's the way 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.

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 more, we believe in the war.

And yes, that's it, that is what they think, those hundred thousand Kantoreks. Young men of iron. Young? None of us is more than twenty. But young? Young men? That was a long time ago. We are old now.

It keeps bobbing back disconcertingly, and then you are confronted by irreconcilable contrast: the skies of childhood and the science of killing, lost youth and the cynicism of knowledge gained too young.

The whole world ought to pass by this bed and say: "That is Franz Kemmerich, nineteen and a half years old, he doesn't want to die. Let him not die!