Henri Barbusse
Henri Barbusse
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#### Full Name and Common Aliases
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Henri Barbusse's full name was Charles Henri Barbes. He is often referred to as Henri Barbusse.
#### Birth and Death Dates
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Born: May 17, 1873
Died: August 29, 1935
#### Nationality and Profession(s)
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Henri Barbusse was a French novelist, poet, and journalist. He is best known for his pacifist and socialist ideals.
#### Early Life and Background
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Born in Asnières-sur-Seine, France, Henri Barbusse's early life was marked by an interest in literature and poetry. However, it wasn't until he became a journalist that he began to develop his writing skills further. His involvement with socialist movements during this period also shaped his views on social justice.
#### Major Accomplishments
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Barbusse made significant contributions to the world of literature through his works. He was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1939, although it is worth noting that he did not accept the award due to the outbreak of World War II.
#### Notable Works or Actions
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Some of Barbusse's notable works include:
Under Fire (1916) - A novel depicting life on the front lines during World War I.
Poetry and Prose - A collection of his poetry that showcases his commitment to pacifism.
As a journalist, he covered events such as the Russian Revolution. This experience further solidified his views on socialism and pacifism.
#### Impact and Legacy
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Henri Barbusse's legacy can be seen in several areas:
Pacifist Movement - He played a significant role in shaping the pacifist movement, advocating for peace through literature.
Socialist Ideals - His commitment to socialism has inspired many writers and thinkers.
#### Why They Are Widely Quoted or Remembered
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Barbusse is widely quoted and remembered for his powerful writing style, which captured the human cost of war. His work continues to inspire readers today.
Quotes by Henri Barbusse
I had seen the struggle to love and make one’s self understood, the refusal of two persons in conversation to give themselves to each other, the coming together of two lovers, the lovers with an infectious smile, who are lovers in name only, who bury themselves in kisses, who press wound to wound to cure themselves, between whom there is really no attachment, and who, in spite of their ecstasy deriving light from shadow, are strangers as much as the sun and the moon are strangers.
When you have just lost a beloved there is a wretched moment, after the brutal shock, when you begin to understand that all is over, and blank despair surrounds you and looms like a giant.
The love we have for our native land would be good and praiseworthy if it did not degenerate, as we see it does everywhere, into vanity, the spirit of predominance, acquisitiveness, hate, envy, nationalism, and militarism.
But now I was tired of having desired too much. I suddenly felt old. I should never recover from the wound in my breast. The dream of peace that I had had a moment before attracted and tempted me only because it was far away. Had I realised it, I should simply have dreamed another dream.
I saw nothing more now than the pallor of my face, with deep orbits, buried in the twilight, and my mouth filled with a silence which gently but surely stifles and destroys.
And night came, as every night will come, until the last one, which will be too vast.
I had no children and shall have none. There are moments when this troubles me, when I reflect that with me a line will end which has lasted since the beginning of humanity.