fellow, with flashing eyes and lovely moustache, shouting a
war-cry and charging like Don Quixote at the windmills. We
nearly burst with laughter at him; but when the sergeant ran up
as white as a sheet, and told us they'd sent us the wrong
cartridges, and that we couldn't fire a shot for the next ten
minutes, we laughed at the other side of our mouths. I never
felt so sick in my life, though I've been in one or two very
tight places. And I hadn't even a revolver cartridge--nothing
but chocolate. We'd no bayonets--nothing. Of course, they just
cut us to bits. And there was Don Quixote flourishing like a
drum major, thinking he'd done the cleverest thing ever known,
whereas he ought to be courtmartialled for it. Of all the fools
ever let loose on a field of battle, that man must be the very
maddest. He and his regiment simply committed suicide--only the
pistol missed fire, that's all.''
-Captain Bluntschli, 'Arms and The Man' by George Bernard Shaw.
Yes I feel like Sergius and how!
If there is any consolation, it's probably in the fact that I'm not ALWAYS a Sergius, I'm Raina too at times. Yes, reading and re-reading Shaw makes me content. Not necessarily happy, but content.
