Quotes About Loss

Aga nii see inimene on: hindab ainult seda, millest ilma jääb.

Najlakše se gubi što se drži u ruci, nikad ono što se napušta.

They were living corpses and died like flies in frost. The Small camp was full of them. They were broken and lost and nothing could save them—not even freedom.

Biz art?k o eski tasas?zlar deÄŸiliz; biz ÅŸimdi müthiÅŸ vurdumduymaz olduk. ÖlmeyeceÄŸiz ama yaÅŸayacak m?y?z? Kimsesiz çocuklar gibi b?rak?lm??, yaÅŸl? insanlar gibi görmüÅŸ geçirmiÅŸiz; kabay?z, üzgünüz, sat?htay?z... galiba mahvolmuÅŸuz.

My healthy blood was powerless to cure the sick blood of my beloved. That was beyond understanding. And so is death.

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.

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.

Wenn man so viele Tote gesehen hat, kann man so viel Schmerz um einen einzigen nicht mehr recht begreifen.

It will try simply to tell of a generation of men who, even though they may have escaped shells, were destroyed by the war." - Paul Baumer

Monotonously the lorries sway, monotonously come the calls, monotonously falls the rain. It falls on our heads and on the heads of the dead up in the line, on the body of the little recruit with the wound that is so much too big for his hip; it falls on Kemmerich's grave; it falls in our hearts.

Der Zug fährt langsam. Manchmal hält er an, und die Toten werden ausgeladen. Er hält oft.

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.

The coffins are really for us. The organization surpasses itself in that kind of thing.

Once we had such desires - but they return not. They are past, they belong to another world that is gone from us.

How senseless is everything that can ever be written, done, or thought, when such things are possible. It must be all lies and of no account when the culture of a thousand years could not prevent this stream of blood being poured out, these torture-chambers in their hundreds of thousands. A hospital alone shows what war is. I

Meil? - tai troškimas perduoti toliau tai, ko negali išlaikyti. - Perduoti toliau? K?? G?žteliu pe?iais. - Tam esama daug vard?. Galb?t sav?j? aš, kur? norim išsaugot. Arba savo širdis. Taip ir pasakykim: širdis. Arba savo ilges?. Savo širdis.

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

cilv?ks tikai tad apzin?s, kas vi?am pieder?jis, kad tas sl?d no rok?m ?r?.

Q?sqancl?q deyilÉ™n ÅŸey iki sevÉ™ndÉ™n birinin qabaqca ölÉ™cÉ™yini bilÉ™n gündÉ™n baÅŸlam?rd?m? ?

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.

Why doesn't she stop worrying? Kemmerich will stay dead whether she knows about it or not. When a man has seen so many dead he cannot understand any longer why there should be so much anguish over a single individual.

Memory is a deadly disease for a refugee; it's his cancer of the soul.