Three pamphlets in which he spared none
do not diminish my esteem.
Rats in a stable are not horses.
(How well he knew their beady eyes,
steaming sewers and twisted knives!)
The pamphlets are medals on his chest,
pearls of truth upon his canon,
while the gnawed brown beams of Europe
crumble in the metro slums
and France relents once more, and burns.
You know what always impresses me about the men (and women) of that generation? The look on their faces in the photos. A sort of quiet determination, a sense they understood the truth and were willing to go to any extreme to fight for it. This is something you can see in movies of the 1930s, especially British: the confidence in their civilization and race.
Now, we might consider how World War II was a turning point insofar as that confidence was lost, and by the supposed victors, no less.
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