e of flowers, the language of love."
She curtseyed again, and began making her way jerkily down the sidewalk, jingling his silver in her hand.
He stuck the roses and daisies in the belt of his uniform and sat with the green flame of Chartreuse in a little glass before him, staring into the gardens, where the foliage was becoming blue and lavender with evening, and the shadows darkened to grey-purple and black. Now and then he glanced furtively, with shame, at the man at the next table. When the restaurant closed he wandered through the unlighted streets towards the river, listening to the laughs and conversations that bubbled like the sparkle in Burgundy through the purple summer night.
At Epernay the stat
Written in 1922, this work is in the same genre as ALL QUIET ON THE WESTERN FRONT. It is unrelentingly bloody and bitter. The particular French battlefield in which the futile killings and maiming is more universal than specific -- no particular battle is named. This pessimistic novel might be termed, rather tritely, to be but a description of the horrors of war intended as an anti-war tract. Without either a clear characterization of the individuals involved, nor a concrete military or political context, its horrific descriptions of death, wounding, and gassing, became for me, finally, and sadly, somewhat tedious.