just as the question with regard to the foreign and political aims of the war was superficial.
Deep down, below the surface of human affairs, something was in process of forming. Something which might be a new order of humanity.
For I could see many—many such died at my side—to whom the understanding was brought home
that hate and rage, murder and destruction had no connection with the real object of the war.
No, the object, just as the aims in view, was purely a matter of chance.
Their deepest and most primitive feelings, even their wildest instincts were not actually directed against the enemy,
their murderous and bloody work was an expression of their own inner being, of their cleft soul,
which wished to rave and kill, to destroy and die, in order to be able to be born anew.
A giant bird was fighting its way out of the egg, and the egg was the world, and the world had to go to ruin.
One night in early spring I was doing sentry duty in front of a farm we had occupied.
The wind was blowing in fitful gusts, shrieking and moaning according to the vagaries of its mood;
over the high Flanders sky rode an army of clouds, somewhere or other behind was a suspicion of moon.
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