Bewegend, mitreißend, man fühlt den Schmerz, die Zerrissenheit, beinahe als ist man einer der Beschriebenen.

Sehr krasses und gutes Buch. Erzählt die Geschichte einer Generation von Jugendlichen, die mit 20 aus dem Krieg zurückkommen und versuchen den Anschluss an das Leben zu finden. Stellt die Absurdität des Krieges, die Probleme und die Verlorenheit einer ganzen Generation dar. Man merkt dass der Autor genau diese Gefühle selbst gefühlt hat, was das Beschriebene sehr realistisch anfühlen lässt. Zieht einen teilweise schon etwas runter, aber nur weil es so gut geschrieben ist.

A sort of sequel to All Quiet on the Western Front, although only one minor character from that book makes an appearance. This is a group of young men from the same area, so some of the dead, including Paul Baumer, are referenced. These are still very young men, for the most part. At 19 or 20 they return to school to get their degrees so they can have some future. This covers the first year after the war and the book effectively conveys the frustration and melancholic mood of the these former soldiers. It is a very sincere book. The writing, especially much of the dialogue is stagy and stilted (much like Lew Ayres's acting in the movie version of All Quiet), but (just like the movie) is still moving. Without their uniforms, the relationships among these men is all turned upside down. A poor soldier who comes from a middle class background can now lord it over a working man's son who was his superior. The denser a man's mind, the quicker he recovers, while the more sensitive and intelligent suffer. Solid citizens who never left their town, complain about how the war could have been won. Socialism, a wife, the dream of a future home are all empty dreams that each man hopes will bring him back to something like normalcy. This book is told in the first person by a young man named Ernst, who finds what comfort he can from nature.

Of all the prose writers I have yet read, none can surpass Remarque. No writer I have encountered understands the human condition as deeply as he does. For Remarque's characters, life is a symbiosis; death and loss on the one hand, camaraderie and one's ability to enmesh oneself in the wonder of nature, with all its hopeful, healing potential, on the other.

A fitting yet unique follow up to its notorious predecessor, this novel is a scathing indictment of war and the betrayal of not just a generation or a single nation, but a snapshot into the brutalisation of an entire world - its people, its ecology. Ultimately though, it is an authentic tale of survival and a magnificent testament to human fragility, friendship and endurance.

*/*
'Ludwig,' he says seriously, 'what are we doing here, anyway? Just look around at how limp and hopeless it all is! We're a burden to ourselves and to other people. Our ideals are bankrupt, our dreams shattered, and we're running around in this brave new world of go-getters and profiteers like a lot of Don Quixotes who've been carried off to some foreign country.'
Ludwig gazes at him for a long time. 'I think we're sick, Georg. We've still got the war in our bones.'
Georg nods. 'We'll never be able to get rid of it.'
'We will', says Ludwig, 'because otherwise it will all have been pointless.'
Georg jumps up and slams his fist on the table, 'It was pointless, Ludwig, that's exactly what's driving me mad! Think about what we were like when we marched out in that storm of enthusiasm! It seemed as if a new age had dawned, all the old, rotten, half-backed partisan stuff had been swept away, and we were a new generation like none had ever been before!'

*/*
And now I sit here in front of my mother, and she is nearly in tears because she can't understand how I have become so coarse as to use a vulgar expression.
'Ernst, she says softly, I've wanted to say this for a long time: you've changed a lot. You've become so restless.
Yes, I think bitterly, I've changed. How well do you actually know me now, Mother? All you have is a memory, nothing more than the memory of the quiet and dreamy youngster I used to be. You must never, ever find out about the last few years, you must never even suspect what it was really like and what it turned me into. The tiniest fraction of it would break your heart, since you are trembling with shame at a single vulgarity which has already shaken your image of me. 'Things will get better', I say, feeling rather helpless, and trying to convince myself as well.
She sits down by me and strokes my hands. I take them away. She looks at me anxiously. 'Sometimes you seem like a stranger, Ernst, you get an expression on your face and then I don't even recognize it as you.'
'I've got to get used to things first, I say, I still feel as it I were just here for a visit..'
My mother leans back. 'But at least you are home, Ernst...'
'Yes, that's the main thing, I say, and stand up.
She stays where she is, sitting in the corner, a tiny figure in the twilight, and I feel with a sudden softness how our roles have suddenly switched. Now she is the child.
I love her, yes, how could I possibly ever love her more than at this moment, when I know that I can never come to her and be with her and tell her everything and maybe find peace? Have I lost her? All at once I feel how much of a stranger I've become, how alone I really am.

*/*
I've spent the whole day in the woods. Now I'm tired [...] but I don't want to go to sleep yet. I sit by the window and listen to the noises of the spring night.
Shadows are flitting between the trees, and there are shouts from the direction of the woods, as if there were wounded men over there. I am calm and composed as I look out into the darkness, because I am no longer afraid of the past. I can look into its eyes without flinching, the fire has gone out of them. I can even face the past, sending my thoughts into the dugouts and shell-holes, and when the images come back to me they no longer bring fear and horror with them, just strength and will.
I had been waiting for a storm that would rescue me and carry me on; but it came softly, without my realising. And yet it is there. While I was despairing and thinking everything was lost, it was quietly growing. I thought that parting was always final. Now I know that growing is a kind of parting. To grow means to leave something behind. And there is no end to it.

*/*
I know now that everything in life is perhaps only a kind of preparation, working in the individual, in different areas, going off into different channels, each one separate -- and just as the different parts and branches of a great tree have to take the sap and move it onwards as it forces itself up, one day for us, too, there will be a rustling of the leaves and sunshine on the crown, and freedom. I want to make a start
It will not be the fulfilment that we dreamt of when we were young and that we expected when we came back after the years out there. It will be a path like any other, with stony parts and good stretches, with damaged sections and with villages and fields; a pathway of work. I shall be alone. Maybe now and again I might find someone to go along some of the way with me, but probably not for all of it.
And it may well be that I shall often have to hoist up my pack when my shoulders are already weary; and just as often I shall find myself hesitating at a crossroads or at a border, I'll have to leave something behind, I'll stumble and fall; but I'll get up again and not just lie there. I'll go on and not turn round. Perhaps I shall never be able to be really happy again, perhaps the war knocked that out of me and I shall always be a little bit apart, not fully at home anywhere; but I think I shall never be completely unhappy, because there will always be something there to hold me up, even if it is just my own hands, or a tree, or the living earth.


I was ready for an utterly sad closing of this amazing novel. It's strange but I am glad. I have read the last 3 pages couple of times, of course because of its therapeutic purpose. There is a tremendous shout in favour of life, of hope and belief, of will and strength, but mostly ability to go on, wherever that path will lead. Maybe, just maybe, things will turn better in the future if more human beings will have the chance to read such wonderful books from early youth. Maybe, just maybe, to replace some sheer idealism with some of the life's true and hard lessons. It's a matter of chance, of luck, of stars and planets, maybe or maybe not.

Remarque är nu officiellt en av mina absoluta favoriter! Både den här och föregångaren, "På västfronten intet nytt" är klart bland de mest klarsynt vackra böcker över mänskligheten, livet, döden och meningen jag någonsin läst.

"Yes, it is a hard thing to part, but to come back again, that is sometimes harder."

This sequel to All Quiet on the Western Front (AQ) is less famous, but I liked it better. While AQ focused on men in the trenches during WWI and the horror they faced, The Road Back tells of the same men as they return to their old homes.

Many of these guys went off to the war while they were still boys, full of piss and vinegar and patriotism. As they lived the horrors described in AQ for 3 or 4 years, everything at home went on as if they hadn't left. Only how can one not change during the experience of war? And when one returns, how can they fit neatly back into the space in society they had left? It is like changing the shape of a missing puzzle piece and then trying to fit it back into the whole puzzle, which had also changed shape.

And the pieces do not fit back into place. Spouses have found other lovers in their absence, formerly well-respected adults are now just men who were not there to guide the boys from childhood to manhood, etc.

I really liked this book and it is as relevant today as it was when it was written. I am told that the third of this "trilogy" by Remarque Three Comrades is also very good so I will seek it out and read that as well. I have been impressed with Remarque's writing, but can't put my finger on why. It's so simplistic, but maybe that's why it's so easy to read. Perhaps I will seek out more of his writings after this trilogy.

Ende des Ersten Weltkriegs: Der junge Ernst Birkholz liegt mit seinen Kameraden an der Westfront, Gerüchte vom bevorstehenden Frieden machen bereits die Runde, grausam gestorben wird weiterhin. Dann ist es plötzlich vorbei, die Kompanie tritt die Heimreise an. Doch was die Soldaten im Schützengraben als Wiederkehr in ein Idyll imaginiert haben, scheitert an den schweren Traumatisierungen der jungen Kriegsteilnehmer und der mangelnden Bereitschaft der Daheimgebliebenen, die Soldaten als Veränderte in die Gesellschaft zu reintegrieren.

So zeigt sich etwa Ernsts Mutter schockiert über den Schimpfwortgebrauch ihres Jungen und seinen Zigarettenkonsum, sodass sie dem Sohn von vornherein die Möglichkeit nimmt, mit ihr über die wahren Schrecken des Krieges zu reden. Kaum daheim flüchten die Rückkehrer daher zurück in die Gesellschaft ihrer Kameraden, deren Zusammenhalt aber fernab der Front nach und nach zu bröckeln beginnt. Während einige Figuren Erlösung schließlich nur noch im Freitod finden, gelangt Ernst nach einem schweren Nervenzusammenbruch am Ende des Textes zu einem desillusionierten, aber gleichzeitig hoffnungsvollen Blick in die Zukunft.

Kaum ein Text hat mich in letzter Zeit so beeindruckt und berührt wie Remarques "Der Weg zurück". In einem balancierten Wechsel von lakonischer und metaphorischer Beschreibung gelingt es dem Autor, ein authentisch wirkendes Zeitportrait der unmittelbaren Nachkriegsmonate zu zeichnen und gleichermaßen einen Blick in die tiefe seelische Zerrüttung einer Jugend zu ermöglichen, der im Schützengraben die Unschuld, die Lebensfähigkeit und die Möglichkeit zu einem gesunden emotionalen Selbsterhalt genommen wurde.

Die episodenartig aufgebauten Kapitel beleuchten jeweils unterschiedliche Aspekte der Heimkehrerproblematik. Eine der intensivsten Sequenzen war für mich die Beschreibung eines stummen Demonstrationszuges von Kriegsinvaliden, in der mit kaum zu ertragener Detailgenauigkeit die unvorstellbaren Verletzungen der ehemaligen Soldaten katalogisiert werden.

Zu den größten erzählerischen Leistungen Remarques zählt allerdings auch das Vermögen, heitere Lebensmomente der Figuren in Szene zu setzen, ohne dass sich diese wie Fremdkörper im globalen Schreckensinferno des Textes ausnehmen. So versuchen die Protagonisten etwa, in der aufblühenden Unterhaltungskultur der Nachkriegszeit Zerstreuung zu finden, wobei folgende Szene mir zu einem außerordentlichen Lachanfall während meiner Zugfahrt in Richtung Arbeit verholfen hat:

"Übrigens gut, daß du da bist, heute ist Tanzturnier, wir machen alle mit, es gibt erstklassige Preise!" [...] Gerade ruft der Mann mit der Crysantheme zur Foxtrott-Konkurrenz aus. Es melden sich nur wenige Paare. Willy geht nicht, er schreitet zum Parkett. "Er hat doch keine Ahnung davon", prustet Karl. Gespannt hängen wir in unseren Stühlen, um zu sehen, was das gibt. Die Löwenbändigerin kommt Willy entgegen. Er reicht ihr mit großer Gebärde den Arm. Die Musik beginnt.
In diesem Moment verwandelt Willy sich in ein wildgewordenes Kamel. Er springt in die Luft und hinkt, hüpft, kreiselt, er schmeißt die Dame hin und her, dann rast er im kurzen Schweinsgalopp durch den Saal, die Zirkusreiterin nicht vor sich, sondern neben sich, so daß sie an seinem ausgestreckten Arm Klimmzüge macht, während er volle Freiheit nach der anderen Seite hat, ohne Sorge, ihr die Füße zu zertrampeln. [...]
Kein Mensch im Saal zweifelt daran, einen bisher unbekannten Meister des Überfoxtrotts vor sich zu sehen.

Zusammenfassend: 5 Sterne und eine dicke Leseempfehlung von mir. Ich habe den Text übrigens für 20 Cent auf einem Flohmarkt erstanden - reichlich unterbezahlt!

Hamisítatlan pacifista propaganda, de a csúcskategóriás fajtából. Remarque a maga érzelmességet, humort és horrort ötvöző néptanító-stílusában leltárt készít mindazon dolgokról, amik az első világháborúból hazatérő német frontkatonákat várták. A Nyugaton a helyzet változatlan szerves továbbgondolásáról van itt szó, kicsit szószaporítón, de talán még gondolatébresztőbben is, mint ahogy azt a méltán népszerű klasszikus előzmény teszi. Helyenként persze már-már idegesítően didaktikus, és akit irritál az irodalomban a népművelés, néha majd a fejét csóválja*, de engem bőven kárpótolt, hogy ebben a könyvben bukkan fel talán először annak a problémának a részletes, mégis emészthető irodalmi kibontása, amit manapság poszttraumatikus stressz szindrómának neveznek. És hát az is nagyon ügyes, ahogy Remarque fogja a bajtársiasság éthoszát (azt az erényt, amit ő is, meg a barnaingesek is nagyra becsültek), és bemutatja, a fasiszta fogalomértelmezés hogyan semmisíti meg annak valódi értéktartalmát.

Van ebben a könyvben amúgy egy kép, ami nagyon megragadott: a hazatérő katonák tanácstalansága, amikor a meglátják a háború által nem érintett otthoni városokat. Aztán még az is, amikor a végén az erdőben pihenő veteránok látják a következő generációt, a tejfölösszájú kamaszokat lelkesülten gyakorlatozni. Ennek a résznek a keserűsége jelzi, Remarque tudatában volt annak, irodalma nem fogja megmenteni a történelemtől a németeket. Mondjuk a második világháborúból hazatérő katonákat legalább sikerült Hitlernek megkímélnie attól a sokktól, hogy Németországot romlatlan állapotban lássák viszont… Gratula.

* Engem amúgy idegesít. És néha csóváltam is a fejem. Ugyanakkor ha valamikor szükség volt népnevelésre az irodalomban, akkor az a német ’30-as évek, és ha valaki jól csinálja a népnevelést, akkor az Remarque.

4*

This follow-up to All Quiet tries to glue your shattered heart back together, and it succeeds to the point where the cracks are still showing and slowly falling apart again.

Daug parašyta knygų apie karus. Daug mažiau apie tai kas būna, kai jie pagaliau baigiasi.

How near they come together, yesterday and today, death and life!
*
A vague, threatening something seems to be sneaking upon me; it retreats when I try to grapple with it, it disperses when I advance upon it, and then it gathers again behind me and watches.
*
I see now that it has all been in vain—I have been running about and about, I have knocked again at all the doors of my youth and desired to enter in there; I thought, surely it must admit me again, for I am still young and have wished so much to forget—but it fled always before me like a will-o'-the-wisp, it fell away without sound, it crumbled like tinder at my lightest touch. And I could not understand—Surely here at least something of it must remain? I attempted it again and again, and as a result made myself merely ridiculous and wretched. But now I know, I know now that a still, silent war has ravaged this country of my memories also; I know now it would be useless for me to look farther. Time lies between like a great gulf; I cannot get back. There is nothing for it; I must go forward, march onward, anywhere, it matters nothing, I have no goal.
*
Was there no flash of lightning then that tore me away? Did no country suddenly founder and go down about me, leaving me only surviving, all else this moment perished and lost to me for ever?
*
Unconsciously I begin to walk faster, breathe deeper. I will have it again—I must have it again. It shall come again, else what reason is there to live?
*
Ach, love—it is a torch falling into an abyss, revealing nothing but only how deep it is!
*
[...] but where man is unhappy, what help is there then in such fickle, ambiguous things as words? They can only make matters worse.
*
The noiseless streams of the earth ebb and flow, and my blood flows with them; it is borne along with them and has part in them all. Through the warm dark of the earth it is flowing with the meaning of crystals and quartzes, it is in the secret sound of the weight with which drops sink down among the roots and assemble to thin runnels in search of the springs. With them it breaks out again from under the ground, it is in brooks and in rivers, in the glistening banks, in the breadth of the sea and in the. moist silver vapour the sun draws up again to the clouds—it circles and circles, it takes ever more and more of me with it and empties it into the earth and underground streams; the chest sinks and collapses, the arms fall away, slowly and without pain the body disappears; it is gone; now only the fabric, only the husks remain. The body has become the trickling of subterranean springs, the talk of the grasses, moving wind, rustling leaf, and silent, resounding sky. The meadow comes nearer, flowers grow through it, blossoms sway over it; I have sunk down, forgotten, poured away under poppies and yellow marsh marigolds, over which butterflies and dragon-flies hover.