Explore "Road Back" by Erich Maria Remarque on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Has it been years? Or was it only weeks? Like a mist, like a distant thunderstorm the past hangs on the horizon. I have been ill a long time, and whenever the fever lessened the troubled face of my mother was always there. But then came an immense weariness that took away all obdurate-ness, a waking sleep in which all thoughts were resolved, a feeble surrender to the gentle singing of the blood and the warmth of the sun.
The meadows are glowing with the splendour of late summer. Just to lie in the grasses! -the spears are higher than one's face. They bend over, they are the world, nothing is here but gentle swaying to the rhythm of the wind. In places where grass alone grows the wind has a soft humming note like the sound of a distant scythe-there where sorrel is, its note is deeper, more sombre. One must be still a long time and listen intently to hear it.