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“But what was lacking, what was different, I asked myself, listening to the talk? And to answer that question I had to think myself out of the room, back into the past, before the war indeed, and to set before my eyes the model of another luncheon party held in rooms not very far distant from these; but different. Everything was different. Meanwhile the talk went on among the guests, who were many and young, some of this sex, some of that; it went on swimmingly, it went on agreeably, freely, amusingly. And as it went on I set it against the background of that other talk, and as I matched the two together I had no doubt that one was the descendant, the legitimate heir of the other. Nothing was changed; nothing was different save only - here I listened with all my ears not entirely to what was being said, but to the murmur or current behind it. Yes - that was it - the change was there. Before the war at a luncheon party like this people would have said precisely the same things but they would have sounded different, because in those days they were accompanied by a sort of humming noise, not articulate, but musical, exciting, which changed the value of the words themselves. Could one set that humming noise to words? Perhaps with the help of the poets one could. ...

The very reason why the poetry excites one to such abandonment, such rapture, is that it celebrates some feeling that one used to have (at luncheon parties before the war perhaps), so that one responds easily, familiarly, without having to check the feeling, or to compare it with any that one has now.”
― Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s Own

“Ogni generazione ha le proprie illusioni riguardo alla civiltà; alcune credono di contribuire al suo progresso, altre di essere testimoni della sua decadenza. In realtà essa s'infiamma, cova e si spegne simultaneamente, a seconda del luogo o del punto di vista da cui la si osserva. La generazione che a quel tempo discuteva di questioni filosofiche, sociali e politiche sulla kapija, sotto le stelle e sopra l'acqua, era solo più ricca di illusioni; per il resto era del tutto simile alle altre. Anch'essa aveva la sensazione di accendere i primi fuochi di una civiltà nuova, e di spegnere le ultime fiamme di quella che si stava consumando. Quel che si può dire in particolare di quei giovani è che da molto tempo non ne esistono altri che con tanta audacia sognino e parlino dei grandi problemi dell'esistenza, del piacere e della libertà e che paghino tale libertà a caro prezzo: traendo poca gioia dalla loro vita, soffrendo amaramente, vedendo infrante le illusioni e cadendo in guerra.”
― Ivo Andrić, Il ponte sulla Drina. Racconti