Explore "All Quiet on the Western Front" by Erich Maria Remarque on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
We count the weeks no more. It was winter when I came up, and when the shells exploded the frozen clods of earth were just as dangerous as the fragments. Now the trees are green again. Our life alternates between billets and the front. We have almost grown accustomed to it; war is a cause of death like cancer and tuberculosis, like influenza and dysentery. The deaths are merely more frequent, more varied and terrible.
Our thoughts are clay, they are moulded with the changes of the days; -- when we are resting they are good; under fire, they are dead. Fields of craters within and without.