The Hand of Death

Author’s Note: I wrote this creative story in response to chapter 4 of the novel, All Quiet on the Western Front, by Erich Remarque. I was intrigued by the earth theme portrayed throughout this chapter, and how we all come from the earth, but also eventually return to it. I also connected this idea back to the main them of adulthood because I believe that in order to truly be an adult, you must understand why it is necessary for you to die, and you mustn’t be afraid to die. I hope you like it!

My nose twitches back and forth, as the smell of death eradicates all other perfumes with its sinister, choking stench. I can no longer pinpoint where in this suddenly piercing sterile enclosure it diffuses; encompassing, suffocating, it strangles everyone, intertwining scent and memories it floats on eerily. Gasping for air, I notice my pulse quicken as my heart surges forward, nourished with adrenaline. My heart gallops alongside my mind, racing with images of cold carcasses and limp limbs. And then I see it – the fog of death reaching its hand out towards my neck, struggling to strain the last drop of life out of me.

And then I run.

I run, not because of nausea, not because of homesickness, but because I shudder at the sight of death, at the thought of it. I am a young woman, barely sixty-five years of age, and yet they drag me to this house of death – this heart hungry hospital. My days on this earth are not yet numbered – they can’t be; I am still in full bloom, my petals thrive and mature with every gulp of air I breathe and every lively step I take. I make it to the bus stop nearby, where I heave myself heartily onto the brawny bench. My heart relaxes as I release a warm mouthful of life-giving air in a generous sigh. I lean back onto the bench, and fixate my eyes on the sorry excuse for a garden a few feet away. A stump of an old tree is being invaded and infested with weeds of all kinds. At first I feel empathy for the old tree trunk, who, after losing his lovely life, is humiliated and harassed by these invasive beasts. But after my brow furrows and my eyes turn to slits, I realize that these so called weeds are really delicate flowers, using the shielding trunk as protection from other natural enemies. As I come upon this conclusion, I hear shouts of worry and relief behind my shoulder and immediately my thoughts veer in the completely opposite direction.

The nurses drag me back to the gloomy prison cell, assuring me that my stay will be much more enjoyable if I act the part of the compliant patient. I roll my eyes. They treat me as if I have regressed back to my immature toddler state, patiently asking if I would like a room with a window, or one near a bathroom. Without thinking, I immediately blurt out that I would enjoy a window room, if that wouldn’t be too much of a hassle. Why I would ask for a window room is unbeknownst to me, but I trudge down the whitewashed hall, perch upon my rickety-railed bed and stare longingly out the window. My eyes fall upon the guardian tree trunk with its frail, vibrantly colored children covering it with their lively leaves and pretty petals.

And then I fall.

And as I fall, I envision my grave – my own tree trunk – from which countless beings of life will sprout. Before my eyes close for the last time on earth, I gaze once more upon the garden. Effortlessly the trunk protects, effortlessly thrive the flowers, effortlessly surrenders my body. And then I see the hand of death reaching out towards me, not to strangle me, but to offer me a hand into the threshold of the earth.

Mimic Lines:

“One can no longer distinguish whence in this now quiet silvery landscape it comes; ghostly, invisible, it is everywhere, between heaven and earth it rolls on immeasurably” (63).

“Monotonously the lorries sway, monotonously come the calls, monotonously falls the rain” (74).

Mosaic

Author’s Note: I wrote this creative piece in response to chapters 1 through 3 in the novel, All Quiet on the Western Front, by Erich Remarque. I was inspired by the theme of growing from a child to an adult, and also by the theme of breaking to pieces. The novel depicts how our lives must break to pieces before we can become an adult, and in order to be a successful adult, we must be able to piece them back together. I was inspired by the quote, “The first bombardment showed us our mistake, and under it the world as they had taught it to us broke in pieces” (13). Those who can build a life off of a broken one truly understand themselves as a person, and therefore they are true adults.

Her hands methodically smoothed the circling clay as her foot relentlessly drummed on the petal down below. Teachers’ instructions swirled through her ears with graceful ease, and her mind reacted immediately, as if these blurbs of sound were manufactured in her own factory of a mind. Shaping and tapering, she altered its silhouette; stroking and caressing, she altered its texture; weeping and laughing, she altered its emotion. The process was grueling, but she worked patiently to finish her craft, her effort, her art. As the wheel decelerated in speed, her piece changed from a swirl of clay to a beautiful pot – one so carefully crafted that it could have passed as the teacher’s model. Lifting her clay ever so gently, she dutifully lugged it to the kiln, where it would be transformed from earthly material to gleaming art.

***

With every waking day, she anxiously rose from her bed, unable to contain her excitement. Racing to the calendar, her finger traced the endless days until her creation would be complete and her art – her soul, really – would make its debut in this world. When at last the day arrived, the woman walked briskly to the sunny studio, and her pursed lips sprouted and grew into a beaming smile. She imagined herself carelessly walking into the studio, tapping her toes and rolling her eyes as others received their ordinary pottery from the kiln. When her name was called, she would waltz gracefully to the teacher and gently stroke the silky side with her forefinger. Some would jealously gasp and glare as she carried her artwork back to her seat, others would stare in awe and praise her talent. But as she entered the threshold of the studio, her daydream was shattered into reality, as she stared her worktable, covered in broken pieces of pottery. Her teacher apologized, said that the kiln quite often proves to be to hot for some pottery to handle. As her mouth hung agape, she sorrowfully stared as her creation lay in ruins; her life seemed to break into pieces, just like her pot.

***

For weeks, she dreaded going home to a kitchen table infested with broken clay. As much ominous depression as it seemed to bring her, she couldn’t bring herself to part with these pieces of pottery – she had invested hours, sweat, and a part of her soul into them, they were a part of her. One day at work, a colleague of hers told an intriguing story about finding your inner self – how one must break the rules occasionally to truly understand who they are as a person. She laughed at this absurd prospect – her, breaking the rules? Never. She was a rule-follower and she intended to keep it that way, so she stashed the conversation into the back of her racing mind. But as she passed her kitchen table on the way to bed that night, something burst inside of her and she paused slightly, turning swiftly on her heel while a sunny smile rose onto her face.

***

The woman has a family now – a husband, two daughters, a son and a border collie, to be exact. They moved onto a farm in the country about three years ago, in order to get away from the hustle and bustle of the city. But one thing did not change from their old apartment to their new home: a grand mosaic still hangs above their glowing fireplace, depicting a gleaming sun rising from the earth.

Foresight

Author's Note: This is a response to Chapter two of the novel, All Quiet on the Western Front, by Erich Maria Remarque. The theme of foresight was apparent in this chapter, and I believe that being an adult often deals with our ability to look ahead in life and to imagine what could happen next.

Youth is merely fancy nomenclature for the fog that surrounds our future and envelops our childhood. Youth acts as a barrier and it prohibits us from stepping beyond our current stage and into the doorway of hope. Youth does not encompass a certain age, but it holds all those who are frozen in time, unable to look ahead. In the novel, All Quiet on the Western Front, author Erich Maria Remarque paints the picture of foresight on a canvas of adulthood while swiftly flicking brushes of reverse syntax, thus proving that much more than age is needed for maturity.

Stolen abruptly from their childhood, Paul Bäumer and his school friends are forced into an early adulthood of war, but adults they are not; rather they are scornful boils of immaturity sticking out in a sea of maturity. Barely twenty years old, Paul and his friends feel out of place in a weary world of waning wonder and waxing warfare. Men fill their ears with tales of the past and hopes of the future, while they sit silently still, their eyes blinded to anything but their current situation. As Paul remarks upon his past, he notes that his generation has always seemed stuck in the present, and that, “Beyond this our life did not extend. And of this nothing remains” (20). Youth blinds Paul from foresight, and his reverse syntax further explains this sightlessness because his words imitate his life – trapped in reverse, unable to move forward towards a bright future. Although Paul’s birth certificate states the age of an able-bodied adult, he has yet to enter his mature years. Without the ability of foresight, he will never cross the threshold from child to adult, because he has yet to imagine where he could go, what he could do, or who he could be.

Torn to Pieces

Author's Note: This was my response to Chapter 1 of the novel, All Quiet on the Western Front, by Erich Maria Remarque. I wrote about the motif of pieces, because it seems that as we grow up, our life has to be torn to pieces at one point or another.

Our life’s purpose as humans is to navigate a path through life by listening and learning, looking and locating. To do so without a map would be foolish, therefore a passel of us often find ourselves sketching a map with the instructions of our elders, constantly drawing from their words our own map of life. This map – one so carefully and eloquently crafted – does not truly belong to us; this map – one full of false turns and dead ends – is only a collection of lessons and stories of others; this map will inevitably be torn to pieces. Erich Maria Remarque uses the motif of breaking into pieces in the novel, All Quiet on the Western Front, to prove that our previous view of the world must break to pieces before encountering our own meaning of life.

Paul Baumer, the poetic narrator of the story, trudges wearily through the ominous war, watching as others’ lives are torn to pieces while struggling to piece his own back together. Before heading off to war, Paul attended school and was strongly influenced by his teacher, Kantorek. As a figure of authority, Kantorek filled the minds of his students to the brim with ideas of nationalism and obligations to the country. Paul Baumer heeded the wise words of his teacher, and joined the army, but looks back upon the situation with regret. As he lives through weary war, vicious violence and devastating death, he remembers the Kantorek’s false advice and thinks, “The first bombardment showed us our mistake, and under it the world as they had taught it to us broke in pieces” (13). As his map of life is torn to pieces, Paul comprehends the brutality of life and realizes he must piece together a map all his own. The words of advice from Kantorek that he so carefully drew up a map from were not his own words, and the map was bound to break. Fighting in the grueling war not only leaves Paul’s world in pieces, but also gives him the maturity to piece his life back together. Before the war, Paul was a child because he believed that there was an answer to every problem and his life would always be whole, but now he has become an adult because his life falls to pieces and he realizes that the answers of life will not always leave his soul whole.