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So many bright futures consigned to the ashes of the past.so many dreams lost in the madness that had engulfed us.except for a few widely scattered shouts of joy,the survivors of the abyss sat hollow-eyed and silent, trying to comprehend a world without war.

-Paul Fussell

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So Many Bright Futures Consigned To The

Paul Fussell

So many bright futures consigned to the ashes of the past.so many dreams lost in the madness that had engulfed us.except for a few widely scattered shouts of joy,the survivors of the abyss sat hollow-eyed and silent, trying to comprehend a world without war.

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Did you ever notice how many survivors they have? did you ever notice that? everybody - every time you turn around, 15,000 survivors meet here, 400 survivors convention there. i mean, did you ever notice? nazis sure were inefficient, weren't they? boy, boy, boy! ...you almost have no survivors that ever say they saw a gas chamber or saw the workings of a gas chamber...they'll say these preposterous stories that anybody can check out to be a lie, an absolute lie.

Better to be always in a minority of one with god - branded as madman, incendiary, fanatic, heretic, infidel - frowned upon by "the powers that be," and mobbed by the populace - or consigned ignominiously to the gallows, like him whose "soul is marching on," though his "body lies mouldering in the grave," or burnt to ashes at the stake like wickliffe, or nailed to the cross like him who "gave himself for the world," - in defence of the right, than like herod, having the shouts of a multitude crying, "it is the voice of a god, and not of a man!"

As a child our dreams got scattered all about and all our future prospects got scattered to so many places, and we spend our lives trying to find the little pieces that make up our lives and make up the dreams that we had as a child that got blown away in the windstorm

This is a valley of ashes--a fantastic farm where ashes grow like wheat into ridges and hills and grotesque gardens; where ashes take the forms of houses and chimneys and rising smoke and, finally, with a transcendent effort, of men who move dimly and already crumbling through the powdery air. occasionally a line of gray cars crawls along an invisible track, gives out a ghastly creak, and comes to rest, and immediately the ash-gray men swarm up with leaden spades and stir up an impenetrable cloud, which screens their obscure operations from your sight.

And when we look in through the windows, all we see are shadows. and when we try and listen, all we hear is a whispering. and we cannot understand the whispering, because our minds have been invaded by a war. a war that we have both won and lost. the very worst sort of war. a war that captures dreams and re-dreams them. a war that has made us adore our conquerors and despise ourselves.

The abyss is full of reality, the abyss experiences itself, the abyss is alive.

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