Well yeah, screw you guise, I know this should be in the literature section but no one really checks it so I'd rather post it here, where everything is relevant.

The reason I am posting this is just to see if there's anything I could improve on.

This is a 750 word essay, which is based upon a book called "All Quiet on the Western Front", which we studied in english. The book is one about WWI, where a young man goes to war and faces it's hell.

To conclude it, I had to do a piece on the book about something significant to the plot, and it was a letter from one of Paul's (The main character) friends, Kemmerich, who is dying. The letter is for his mother.

Oh yeah, this was an english version of a german book, which was extremely well translated.

Here it goes.


My goal is to make my ideas clear to everyone who would read them, to explain them to the very depth of their plot and not stop halfway, to show the actions of a character more clearly, as in to create a character from lines of text. What I am basically doing in this assignment is becoming Kemmerich and sending a letter to his mother, saying he’s dying and what he wants to say before he walks into the void of light. This means a great amount of the assignment will be purely emotional and expressive toward his thoughts, his regrets and his promises.

Dear mother,

The war has brought me to my last breaths, and I fear that I am about to leave you, my family and my friends to the light beyond. Kantorek lied. There is nothing for it, no glory for your country, no patriotism, only a fear that you won’t last another minute, with your rotting feet and squelching mud everywhere, in a crude shell hole with only the sizzling of lice to keep you alive. I can’t understand his enthusiasm to something as lifeless as killing another man, to shoot a long object that has the possibility of taking another man’s life, just like that. Mother, it’s incomprehensible. We are the puppets of our nation, we are its disposable diapers, which it throws away when used, with no thought about it. We are fabricated with the threads of life, and they burn them and make sure not grow back, not with therapy, surgery, love or passion. War is pointless, and I am sure any soldier would agree. It blows away our very souls and puts a dagger branded with our nations name on it.

It started out with thirty young, innocent boys, not older than eighteen, brought there with the false hopes of being someone remembered, being an honorable person in society. It’s now left to a bit more than half, and I’m the one whole half it. I have a heavy feeling that most of us will be 6 feet under before the end.

I am lying in my bed, my leg in a bin somewhere, I can’t feel anymore, food tastes like ashes in my mouth, I feel like the world is closing around me, but I am peaceful. I’m in acceptance that there is really no one to blame but myself. I have done everything to myself. The persuasion that I fell into, the peer pressure I was susceptible to, may have convinced me, but I should’ve known, the very second that I put my name on the brown paper that represents the end of my life. It is my fault, and no one else.

Oh mother, I feel as if I have cheated you of the thing you loved the most, my very own consciousness, that you took all the endearing trouble to make, and me to just throw it away by signing up to a concept of reality that would soon take my life. Oh woe behold all that you have lived for is now to be torn away from you, I feel as if I have just killed someone close, for I know it is myself. All you ever did to me was good, and I would like to tell you that I love you with all my heart, that you were the one who mattered most in my life, for you provided food, shelter, and a helping hand. You were the best mother I could ever have.

I would like to conclude this letter with a thanks for all the good they have done for me, and, more importantly, for my others. I feel, as I am reaching the end of my life, that everything I took for granted is now out of reach, which brings unbearable pain to my chest, to know that you won’t live to see another full moon, or be able to once again play in the meadows of the forest, or even just to sit peacefully by the fire with you, book in hands.

I think life should not be wasted such as this, it is not worth it, and never will be. No matter how extreme. For life is gift not only for yourself, but a gift from others, because without others, there would be a gaping hole in your life, a society you yearn for. These are the words of a soon-dead man. For you only know the truth until you experience it.

Yours truly,