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“You are all a lost generation.

[with credit to Gertrude Stein]”
― Ernest Hemingway , The Sun Also Rises

“Something must be radically wrong with a culture and a civilisation when its youth begins to desert it. Youth is the natural time for revolt, for experiment, for a generous idealism that is eager for action. Any civilisation which has the wisdom of self-preservation will allow a certain margin of freedom for the expression of this youthful mood. But the plain, unpalatable fact is that in America today that margin of freedom has been reduced to the vanishing point. Rebellious youth is not wanted here. In our environment there is nothing to challenge our young men; there is no flexibility, no colour, no possibility for adventure, no chance to shape events more generously than is permitted under the rules of highly organised looting. All our institutional life combines for the common purpose of blackjacking our youth into the acceptance of the status quo; and not acceptance of it merely, but rather its glorification.”
― Harold Edmund Stearns, America and the young intellectual

“In those days we did not trust anyone who had not been in the war, but we did not
completely trust anyone.”
― Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast

“Everywhere was the atmosphere of a long debauch that had to end; the orchestras played too fast, the stakes were too high at the gambling tables, the players were so empty, so tired, secretly hoping to vanish together into sleep and ... maybe wake on a very distant morning and hear nothing, whatever, no shouting or crooning, find all things changed.”
― Malcolm Cowley, Exile's Return: A Literary Odyssey of the 1920s

“We are homeless enough in this world under the best of circumstances without going to any special effort to test our capacity to be more so.”
― Harold Edmund Stearns, The Confessions of a Harvard Man : The Street I Know Revisited: A Journey Through Literary Bohemia, Paris & New York in the 20's & 30's

“For me, as for all the world, the War was a tragedy and a vast stupidity, a waste of youth and of time; it betrayed my faith, mocked my love, and irremediably spoilt my career.”
― Vera Brittain, Testament of Youth

“They were learning that New York had another life, too â€� subterranean, like almost everything that was human in the city â€� a life of writers meeting in restaurants at lunchtime or in coffee houses after business hours to talk of work just started or magazines unpublished, and even to lay modest plans for the future. Modestly they were beginning to write poems worth the trouble of reading to their friends over coffee cups. Modestly they were rebelling once more.”
― Malcolm Cowley, Exile's Return: A Literary Odyssey of the 1920s

“When distinction of any kind, even intellectual distinction, is somehow resented as a betrayal of the American spirit of equal opportunity for all, the result must be just this terror of individualistic impulses setting us apart, either above or below our neighbours; just this determination to obey without questioning and to subscribe with passion to the conventions and traditions. The dilemma becomes a very real one: How can this sense of democratic equality be made compatible with respect for exceptional personalities or great minds? How can democracy, as we understand it today, with its iron repression of the free spirit, its monotonous standardisation of everything, learn to cherish an intellectual aristocracy without which any nation runs the risk of becoming a civilisation of the commonplace and the second-rate?”
― Harold Edmund Stearns, America and the young intellectual

“The late 1920s were an age of islands, real and metaphorical. They were an age when Americans by thousands and tens of thousands were scheming to take the next boat for the South Seas or the West Indies, or better still for Paris, from which they could scatter to Majorca, Corsica, Capri or the isles of Greece. Paris itself was a modern city that seemed islanded in the past, and there were island countries, like Mexico, where Americans could feel that they had escaped from everything that oppressed them in a business civilization. Or without leaving home they could build themselves private islands of art or philosophy; or else - and this was a frequent solution - they could create social islands in the shadow of the skyscrapers, groups of close friends among whom they could live as unconstrainedly as in a Polynesian valley, live without moral scruples or modern conveniences, live in the pure moment, live gaily on gin and love and two lamb chops broiled over a coal fire in the grate. That was part of the Greenwich Village idea, and soon it was being copied in Boston, San Francisco, everywhere.”
― Malcolm Cowley, Exile's Return: A Literary Odyssey of the 1920s

“Failure has its successes.”
― Brian Howard

“Not everyone’s life is like a house that belongs to him and that he can go on decorating ever more richly with the furniture of his memory. Some people live in hotels, in many hotels. The years close behind them like hotel doorsâ€� and the only thing that remains is a little courage and no regrets.”
― Erich Maria Remarque

“No one can see another in the darkness, Esch, and that cloudless clarity of yours is only a dream. You know that I cannot keep you beside me, much as you fear your loneliness. We are a lost generation. I too can only go about my business.”
― Hermann Broch, The Sleepwalkers

“A neat little apartment with a neat little bourgeois life. A neat little security on the edge of the abyss. Do you really see that?”
― Erich Maria Remarque, Arch of Triumph: A Novel of a Man Without a Country

“I had try to tell the difference between the night and the day and how the night was better unless the day was very clean and cold and I could not tell it; as I cannot tell it now. But if you have had it you know.”
― Ernest Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms

“I know that these things will never come back. I may see the rocks again, and smell the flowers, and watch the dawn sunshine chase the shadows from the old sulphuric-colored walls, but the light that sprang from the heightened consciousness of wartime, the glory seen by the enraptured ingenious eyes of twenty-two, will be upon them no more. I am a girl no longer, and the world, for all its excitements of chosen work and individualistic play, has grown tame in comparison with Malta during those years of our anguish.

It is, I think, this glamour, this magic, this incomparable keying up of the spirit in a time of mortal conflict, which constitute the pacifist’s real problem â€� a problem still incompletely imagined, and still quite unresolved. The causes of war are always falsely represented; its honour is dishonest and its glory meretricious, but the challenge to spiritual endurance, the intense sharpening of all the senses, the vitalising consciousness of common peril for a common end, remain to allure those boys and girls who have just reached the age when love and friendship and adventure call more persistently than at any later time. The glamour may be the mere delirium of fever, which as soon as war is over dies out and shows itself for the will-oâ€�-the-wisp that it is, but while it lasts no emotion known to man seems as yet to have quite the compelling power of this enlarged vitality.”
― Vera Brittain, Testament of Youth

“I am young, I am twenty years old; yet I know nothing of life but despair, death, fear, and fatuous superficiality cast over an abyss of sorrow. I see how peoples are set against one another, and in silence, unknowingly, foolishly, obediently, innocently slay one another. I see that the keenest brains of the world invent weapons and words to make it yet more refined and enduring. And all men of my age . . . throughout the whole world see these things; all my generation is experiencing these things with me. What would our fathers do if we suddenly stood up and came before them and proffered our account? What do they expect of us if a time ever comes when the war is over? Through the years our business has been killing; - it was our first calling in life. Our knowledge of life is limited to death. What will happen afterwards? And what shall come out of us?”
― Erich Maria Remarque, All Quiet on the Western Front

“. . . men will not understand us - for the generation that grew up before us, though it has passed these years with us already had a home and a calling; now it will return to its old occupations, and the war will be forgotten - and the generation that that has grown up after us will be strange to us and push us aside. We will be superfluous even to ourselves, we will grow older, a few will adapt themselves, some others will merely submit, and most will be bewildered; - the years will pass by and in the end we shall fall into ruin.”
― Erich Maria Remarque, All Quiet on the Western Front

“A world full of dreamers has been shaken awake to a nightmarish reality where the passionate end up penniless and to survive means to sacrifice the soul.”
― Sean Norris, Heaven and Hurricanes

“Our morality system has become a mechanical device for protecting us against ourselves; it is the handiwork of terror.”
― Harold Edmund Stearns, America and the young intellectual

“The root of liberalism, in a word, is hatred of compulsion, for liberalism has the respect for the individual and his conscience and reason which the employment of coercion necessarily destroys. The liberal has faith in the individual â€� faith that he can be persuaded by rational means to beliefs compatible with social good.”
― Harold Edmund Stearns, Liberalism in America: Its Origin, Its Temporary Collapse, Its Future

“But I know many things I can't say.”
― Ernest Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms

“To be or not to be, that is out of the question! I live in the 21st century.”
― Ljupka Cvetanova, The New Land

“There were thousands of young men, as padres at the front would testify, in whom belief in God was an unshakeable conviction, and who in danger, in bodily agony and in death found peace and consolation in their undimmed faith. There were thousands upon thousands again for whom religion had always been a matter of indifference, and to whom it remained so. But there were also those, not negligible in point of numbers, and far from negligible in point of intelligence, who quietly thought about it all, and found that the faith in which they had been brought up was not reconcilable with the horrors that were their daily bread. About the reality of them there was no doubt: to see your friend turned to tripe or a dish of brains before your eyes was actual, and they threw over the other not with indifference, but with the savage contempt of those who have been fooled. It was childish to talk of loving your enemies when you were going through hell yourself for the sake of maiming or killing them as profusely as possible. And what price Divine Protection for non-combatants? There was that padre (bloody fool) who ran out across a shell-swept area to administer the sacrament to a man who lay mortally wounded in front of a trench, and who was like to die before they could bring him in. A shell hit him directly as he ran: he vanished like a property in a conjuring trick, and one couldn't help laughing and was sick afterwards.”
― E.F. Benson, As We Are

“The war has ruined us for everything.”
― Erich Maria Remarque, All Quiet on the Western Front

“As I lay on the bed I could see the big mirror on the other side of the room but could not see what it reflected.”
― Ernest Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms

“The dancers were in a crowd, so you did not see the intricate play of the feet. All you saw was the heads and shoulders going up and down, up and down.”
― Ernest Hemingway, Fiesta

“Me gusta mucho pensar que nacimos en años salvajes de la humanidad. Me gustaría tanto que seamos la generación que lo ponga en tinta y papel. Como la generación perdida de Paris en los 20's”
― Joaquin G. Gutierrez

“A lost soul is like a traveler trapped in a maze of his own making, blind to the truth and clinging to the false comfort of his own lies. He is shackled by the chains of his addictions, stumbling through the darkness of his failures, and unable to find the exit from the labyrinth of his own mind. Yet, there is hope for redemption, for the light of truth can pierce the darkness, and the power of love can break the chains of bondage. May he find the courage to face his fears, the strength to let go of his lies, and the grace to embrace the beauty of his true self.

.”
― Shaila Touchton

“At some point every generation is lost. We must be. How else can we find ourselves?”
― Cory Richards, The Color of Everything: A Journey to Quiet the Chaos Within

“+256751735278 spells that work overnight or by accident? I cast these strongest black magic”
― mamalusifa