To read is to find the truth and enjoy the beauty and this
applies to science as well as humanity. We tend
to forget that there is beauty in science/mathematics, as Paul Dirac said “God
used beautiful mathematics in creating the world.”
Books in humanity talk about beautiful people, minds and
stories in beautiful language, and above all, the truth. One only needs to read two chapters, or
perhaps one, of All Quiet on the Western
Front to know why it was one of the books burned by Hitler’s Nazi regime. It is a fiction talking about the truth in
the battle field and may be some of what I call “savage beauty”.
I picked up the book while reading WWI, but knowledge of WWI
is not a prerequisite to enjoy this book.
It is a very small book; one can finish it in a day or two with no
interruption or making notes. I’ll give you
a taste of some samples:
Go to the front:
There are rumors of an offense. . . . on the way to the
front, they saw polished, brand new coffins.
They still smell of resins, and pine, and the forest. There are at least a hundred.
“That's a good preparation for the offense,” says Muller,
astonished.
“They are for us,” growls Detering.
“Don't talk rat,” says Kat to him angrily.
“You be thankful if you get so
much as a coffin,” grins Tjaden, “they'll ship you a water proof sheet for your
old Aunt Sally of a carcass.”
What earth means to a soldier:
To no man does the earth mean so much as to the soldier. When he presses himself down upon her long and
powerfully, when he buries his face and his limbs deep in her from the fear of
death by shell-fire, then she is his only friend, his brother, his mother; he
stifles his terror and his cries in her silence and her security; she shelters
him and releases him for ten seconds to live, ten seconds of life; receives him again and often forever.
Earth!--Earth!--Earth!
Earth with thy folds, and hollows,
and holes, into which a man by fling himself and crouch down. In the spasm of terror, under the hailing of
annihilation, in the bellowing death of the explosions, O Earth, thou grantest
us the great resisting surge of new-own life.
Our being, almost utterly carried away by the fury of the storm, streams
back through our hands from thee, and we, thy redeemed ones, bury ourselves in
thee, and through the long minutes in a mute agony of hope bite into thee with
our lips!