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floor I had brought to light under the vines,
what a fascinating study for a man like me who
was so interested in psychology! There was
nothing like writing a book for a man who
wanted to get away from his own misery, nothing
like writing a book for a man who could not
sleep.
These were his last words, I never saw my
friend again.
I returned to my useless solitude in the old
tower, humiliated and despondent. While
everybody else was offering his life to his country, I
spent my days wandering up and down in the
dark tower, restless like a caged animal, while the
never-ending tidings of suffering and woe were read
to me. Now and then of an evening when the
relentless light of the day had ceased to torture
my eyes, I used to wander up to San Michele in
search of news. The flag of the British Red
Cross was flying over San Michele where brave
and disabled men were nursed back to health by
the same sun that had driven me away from my
beloved home. Alas for the news! How long
was the waiting for those who could do nothing
but wait!
But how many of us dare to confess what so
many have felt, that the burden of their own
grief seemed easier to bear while all men and
women around us were in mourning, that the
wound in their own flanks seemed almost to heal
while the blood was flowing from so many other
wounds? Who dared to grumble over his own
fate while the fate of the world was at stake?
Who dared to whimper over his own pain while
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