Have you ever read a book as a youngster, and then again may years later, after decades have passed? Not surprisingly, its almost as if you’re reading an entirely different book.
When I first read All Quiet on the Western Front, as I remember it, I quite enjoyed the book, but there were parts of it that I had only an abstract understanding of. At twelve, I had no memory of living anywhere but foreign lands. I’d seen the aftermath of war and violence, and witnessed more than one example of religious extremism. While my perception of the world at that time in my life was not as callow as that of most of my generation, I was a child still, and had no frame of reference with which to put these things into the proper perspective. As a result, it was almost as though I was watching a movie; one a child of such tender years certainly should not have seen, perhaps resulting in a few restless nights, but of no lasting consequence. My psyche was not irretrievably scarred.
Now, three decades later, on my second reading of this book, I realize that, while those and other experiences did no damage that could not be undone, they made a lasting and indelible impression, and it is the more subtle and emotive passages of Remarque’s that evoke the most visceral reaction, scenes that had little effect on my twelve-year-old self.
This is good, I like it. But I cannot get on with the people. My mother is the only one who asks no questions. Not so my father. He wants me to tell him about the front… I realise he does not know that a man cannot talk of such things; I would do it willingly, but it is too dangerous for me to put these things into words. I am afraid they might then become gigantic and I be no longer able to master them.
For my part, upon my return home from my own trial by fire, neither of my parents asked any questions. My father because he already knew the answers, having gone through his own, and my mother because she instinctively understood the danger of giving such things voice. Even worse than the questions, however (for while my folks were wise enough to refrain, most others were not), was the sense of isolation, of dislocation. As Remarque puts it,
A terrible feeling of foreignness suddenly rises up in me. I cannot find my way back, I am shut out though I entreat earnestly and put forth all my strength.
There is one particular scene in the book that I had forgotten, and because of this my reaction to it caught me all the more by surprise.
I talk and must talk. So I speak to him and say to him: “Comrade, I did not want to kill you. If you jumped in here again, I would not do it, if you would be sensible too. But you were only an idea to me before, an abstraction that lived in my mind and called forth its appropriate response. It was that abstraction I stabbed. But now, for the first time, I see you are a man like me. I thought of your hand-grenades, of your bayonet, of your rifle; now I see your wife and your face and our fellowship. Forgive me, comrade. We always see it too late. Why do they never tell us that you are poor devils like us, that your mothers are just as anxious as ours, and that we have the same fear of death, and the same dying and the same agony…”
In war, I fought an enemy I did not hate. It was necessary, for his leaders were evil men and had to be stopped. But had they not put him in my path, I would have caused him no harm, for often the citizens of another State are much like those of ours, even if their leaders be men of greed, corruption, and inhumanity. This is a truth I learned as a child, saw reinforced as an adult, and carry with me still.
I reread this book out of nostalgia more than anything else, remembering the enjoyment I derived from it in my youth. I probably will not read it again, for the memories it stirred up are disquieting and better left in the dimmer recesses. But I’m glad to have read it for the second time. I feel as though I did the author more justice this time.
