(...) I have never been a soldier, I just always worn the uniform. What do I got? What do they have drawn the others, who have not revolted, who were not afraid? Yes, What do we got? We, the extras of stupidity personified? What do we get from the heroic death? I played the death scene fifty times, but it was just a theater, and you sedevate on velvet chairs, up front, and my interpretation of the death there seemed to be wise and faithful. (...)
Death always had to be heroic, exciting, drag, for a large end, and convincing. In fact, here, is it? A die, a die of hunger, cold, nothing more than a biological fact, like eating and drinking. Drop like flies and nobody thinks of them, nobody buries them. Lie everywhere around here armless, legless, eyeless, with bellies ripped open. (...)
Last Letters from Stalingrad
Ostriches, 18 - Einaudi
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