like violin strings. Almost
without exception, his analyses of emotion are tremulous monologues. His
shattered spirit cannot find repose.

Doubtless he will be criticised for the preponderant place assumed in
his book by physical pain. The work is full of it. Pain monopolises the
reader's mind and wearies his eyes. Not until we have read _Men in
Battle_ do we fully appreciate Barbusse's chariness in the use of
material effects. If Latzko is persistent in their employment, this is
not merely because he is haunted by memories of pain. He wishes,
deliberately wishes, to communicate these impressions to others, for he
has suffered greatly from others' insensibility.

In very truth, such insensibility has been the saddest of all our
experiences during this war. We knew man to be stupid, mediocre,
selfish: we knew that on occasions man could be extremely cruel. But
though we had few illusions, we had never believed that man could
remain so monstrously indifferent to the cries of millions of victims.
We had never believed that there could be a smile such as we have
witnessed upon the lips of the young fanatics and of the old demoniacs
who, from their safe seats, are never weary of looking on at the mutual
slaughter of the nations, of those who kill one another for the
pleasure, the pride, the ideas, and the interests of the onlookers. All
the rest, all the crimes, we can tolerate; but this aridity of soul is
the worst of all, and we feel that Latzko has been overwhelmed by it.
Like one of his own characters, who is regarded as a sick man because he
cannot forget the sufferings he has witnessed, Latzko cries to the
apathetic public:

"Sick!... No! It is the others that are sick. They are sick who gloat
over news of victories and see conquered miles of territory arise
resplendent above mountains of corpses. They are sick who stretch a
barrier of many-coloured bunting between themselves and their better
feelings, lest they should see what crimes are being committed against
their brothers in the beyond that they call 'the front.' Every man is
sick who can still think, talk, argue, sleep, knowing that other men,
holding their own entrails in their hands, are crawling like
half-crushed worms across the furrows in the fields, and are dying like
animals before they can reach the ambulance station, while somewhere,
far away, a woman with longing in her heart is dreaming beside an empty
bed. All those are sick who fail to hear the mo