Here I am, the victim of fraud, hoaxes, and a worldwide conspiracy. And where?! On the book front, on the battlefield called the classic novel! How many years I, following public opinion, as well as the vivid and colorful profanity of my peers, have been boiling in a cauldron of unflattering representations of the classics as boring and tedious literature that has lost its relevance and poignancy. And now, when my young and fresh mind has almost become firmly rooted in my heart's sweet prejudices and overreactions, I have been subjected to such humiliation, or even rape, by Erich Remarque.
Remarque's biography is essentially marked and his writing fundamentally influenced by German history of the twentieth century: Childhood and youth in imperial Osnabrück, World War I, the Weimar Republic, and most of all his exile in Switzerland and the United States. With the novel All Quiet On the Western Front, first published in 1929, Remarque attained world-wide recognition continuing today.
It is simply unbearable to see all that I believed in, that I was made to believe in, that countless humans who populated our planet wanted me to believe in, crumble. And what is a lost boy to do, standing on the shards of former patterns? How to survive the Western Front and this...art?
Remarque simply had no right to be so grandiose, sensitive and talented! How despicable of him to slip a book written in such expressive and colorful language! A book that made you set aside all more important things to get lost in the muddy trenches, swallowing dust and earth, in the company of yesterday's German schoolboys.
Isn't it a mockery to make an innocent reader experience the horrors of a real war, uncovered, unadorned by a romantic halo and contrived heroism? What are all these Rimbauds, Wolfhounds, Dzirts, Hagens and other skillful men, defeating alone the enemy legions, so guilty? Is this really the battlefield? The low-flying stray bullets from frantically firing machine guns, the rumble and splinters from the many bursts of mines and grenades, random hits and gas attacks. What kind of a whirlwind was this? Stomachs ripped open, jaws blown off, shrapnel in skulls, fractures, cuts, stench of corpses - is that what you're offering me? Where are the bars, the big-breasted beauties, the emperor and the gold medals?
What to say about your patriotism? Didn't your teachers tell you that war is a great school of life, a great chance to become a real man, to go through hardships, to gain wisdom and experience, to steel your body and spirit, and also to pay your debt to the Motherland and to punish its enemies, to set standards and spread its orders around the Earth? And here you are telling me about the lost generation, about children who survived and whose parents will have to answer, about fear, scorched souls, emptiness inside and a break with relatives, with a peaceful life, hopelessness and total lack of future. If you have lost desire and interest in the world, go on the attack, the bayonet will fix everything, although it is better to sharpen a shovel, it will be more handy.
To be happy we need only sausage, bread and canned meat. Let the civilians chew their vouchers, and our young men will get the freshest and tastiest bits in the camp of the enemy. And no amount of shelling will move them until the last couple of potato pancakes are done. You are rude and ignorant, Erich, real soldiers eat buckwheat with stewed meat, drink milk and compote, and you talk about moldy bread and rats. With you, even if you don't want to, you love life.
What are you trying to prove? That there was no war in the world until two or three dozen people pulled the lever to flush the lives of millions of their subjects into the latrine? That one word "no" from the mouth of a monarch or the highest military officer could prevent bloodshed? Do you think that only a handful of rich, autocrats and generals benefit? All right, you've convinced me. And what are you ordered to do with this truth? Surrender, desert and perish after a court-martial, stand upright and catch a bullet in the chest, or is this an incitement to revolt and revolution? Ah, shame on you, for everyone knows that the government always takes care of its people as if they were its own children. Only the most honest, decent, intelligent and outstanding people get to the very top of power, how can one not be aware of such commonplace truths!
War, how much is in that sound...
I protest! I protest against your arbitrariness. Did you have the permission of Himself to make such a vile and deceitful fabrication? Go on, sow death, report the truth, show army life and front-line destiny! No happy endings? Okay. Fate and fate? Courage! No one will believe you. We'll take care of that. Your cries will be drowned in a wave of cheers that will erupt in the crowd at the coming feast, at which we will celebrate our part in the mad bloodshed. No nation has the right to insult and tarnish the honor of our great state! Long live war! War! W-A-R!!!!!
Remarque, you just shredded me, powdered me, molded me like a clay golem and crushed me again, turned me into dust and threw me to the wind. What a madman, a lunatic, a lunatic and a genius you are. You're not a talent, you're a TALENT! I am beyond mad, I am outraged, I adore you, I idolize your work and revel in the sweet languor of your unsurpassed works! You have captivated many, very many readers. And will now take a place of honor among my most favorite writers. Thank you for writing sincerely about real war, real people and real feelings. Your books will not be consigned to oblivion and will not lose their power and charm forever and ever! R.I.P.
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