UCD Archives
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We curate private paper collections documenting the modern Irish State; UCD; and many elements of the Franciscan manuscript patrimony. www.ucd.ie/archives
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![Will that be the end of all my strivings, of all my [theories], of all my ambitions and ideals? Shall no one dear to me ever hear how I fell. Shall no one tell my thoughts? Is immortality a fraud? Ah, no, the flesh, the blood, the thought, the soul rebels against the idea. We do not live for today alone. We are part of the universe and we live as long as it lasts.
On the left hand margin on page 2:
How I strove against fate and suffered and was battered and thwarted but never beaten. How a remorseless destiny pushed me on without realising my cherished hopes & pet desires.](https://cdn.bsky.app/img/feed_thumbnail/plain/did:plc:haa74v4feowinvczksrdivfj/bafkreieqyt4w5etfuz4hentwul6rvmlrmaae73z3p5yzljvgs543mxdi5i@jpeg)
![The hand of dawn is in the eastern sky and now the shells fall thick and fast. Pandemonium is let loose and in anticipation of the day we enter our dugouts where we anchor in a metre of mud. And now the buzz of the telephone is heard. Faces brutalised by fatigue and misery light up a little while the corporal cries out that we are relieved but as I repeat the commandant’s orders on the wire there is an agony of silence. “Preparez-pour-l’assaut-á-midi-cinq” – and the artillery thunders until we can no longer hear our own voices. Death claims another hostage and yet another. The end of the trench has been blown up. The cook who sat there need[s] no gravedigger’s tools to make him a home. Who shall be the next? Who has a cigarette for after as the [] diminishes hope fan the smouldering embers in the next.](https://cdn.bsky.app/img/feed_thumbnail/plain/did:plc:haa74v4feowinvczksrdivfj/bafkreid3jpvacu6jtpgcp67tbgr3ennac6d7xo4l33xwt4y6blfvne5ff4@jpeg)
![The hand of dawn is in the eastern sky and now the shells fall thick and fast. Pandemonium is let loose and in anticipation of the day we enter our dugouts where we anchor in a metre of mud. And now the buzz of the telephone is heard. Faces brutalised by fatigue and misery light up a little while the corporal cries out that we are relieved but as I repeat the commandant’s orders on the wire there is an agony of silence. “Preparez-pour-l’assaut-á-midi-cinq” – and the artillery thunders until we can no longer hear our own voices. Death claims another hostage and yet another. The end of the trench has been blown up. The cook who sat there need[s] no gravedigger’s tools to make him a home. Who shall be the next? Who has a cigarette for after as the [] diminishes hope fan the smouldering embers in the next.](https://cdn.bsky.app/img/feed_thumbnail/plain/did:plc:haa74v4feowinvczksrdivfj/bafkreihyy3l5fyxbq2hqsij4n3c7zjzk4m6pbsv5d23dxfim455d6jlhsu@jpeg)
Reposted by UCD Archives
Reposted by UCD Archives
Reposted by UCD Archives
Reposted by UCD Archives
Reposted by UCD Archives
Reposted by UCD Archives
