All Quiet on the Western Front, book review. (Erich Maria Remarque)

Well . . . What can I say?

Some of you will already know that I like history, mainly around the World Wars admittedly but not exclusively, and so, over the years I have read numerous books about the mechanisation of war in Europe and around the globe and the pain and suffering it brings, both immediate and long term, but never has a fictional book bought me so close to tears as this one.

The writing here is simply off the chart, placing you in the middle of the rat infected trenches, no-man's land, lying in a crater next to the parts of your friends that have just landed next to you because they weren't quick enough or didn't hear the shell falling and you did, and it is as close to any factual book I have read on the subject at describing the true horror, the camaraderie, elation, yes, elation, fear, loneliness and both physical and emotional torment that the men in this war (and women), endured.

I first heard of this book many years ago, and let's be honest, lots of you would have heard the phrase, 'All Quiet on the Western Front' but only when I chanced across this copy in David's of Letchworth Garden City, did I acquire it, and that's a shame really because I should have read this book before now and so should you; all of you.

If you have no interest in history, war, death et al, I won't hold it against you, but put those prejudices aside and buy, download and read this book because then, like me, and particularly at this time of year in England, no other book I've read will take you closer to understanding just a smidgen of what people went through when they fought for freedom during World War I.

I feel so passionate about this book right now - I finished it about two weeks ago but got Goosebumps again as I wrote this post - that I believe All Quiet on the Western Front should be part of our school curriculum (if it's not already), so all children can learn what not to repeat in the future.

There's also a very modern message within the horrors of this book, the message of mental health; how we can't hope to understand what stabbing a man with a bayonet and then listening and watching him for hours as he gradually succumbs, can do to ones mind, let alone the hunger, the cold, the lice, being shelled for days at a time, but that we can have a steadfast resolve to try, and then do our utmost to listen and help.

Star rating for a book like this? I'll leave that up to you to decide if you read it.

_{Don't forget to search my blog for your favourite authors and books and if I haven't read them, message me with your recommendations.}

Lest We Forget . . . remembering the fallen.

I was felled.
Not by bullet, by shrapnel or by shell,
But shock.
The pen that had written those words so elegantly upon the page was indeed,
Mightier than a sword,
A gun
A bomb.
It smote me, sucked the wind from my sails.
I felt weak, unsteady,
Floating.
Not euphoric like in dance or from drink;
Floating as in Limbo, as in death.
To never dance,
Be merry,
Be happy.
I crashed unceremoniously to the floor but,
No pain could inflict me like those words.
No –
Nothing.
No feeling could be worse,
No fear greater.
I fought to rise,
Heard life – tick tocking.
From the cries of the wee bairn next door, the honk of a horn, dogs barking, to the fizz of the wireless.
Life!
Where for me, holding that letter,
Only death.
I pictured his face but knew,
Like father's it would fade.
And poor Mrs Bailey, her son too,
But desertion had caused derision.
So, her loss not greater than mine?
How petty, how stoic and cruel I had been
For death comes but once and should unite not divide.
So let us this day and always,
Look upon the fallen with pride, love,
And hold them in our hearts and minds.
Lest we forget, all that they gave . . .