The world before 1914 spoke a different, decidedly old–fashioned language. Edwardian Renaissance–men, like Rupert Brooke, wrote poetry for recreation. This earnest innocence was soon lost as the war revealed itself to be something
quite the opposite of the expected chivalrous clash of arms on the field of honor. The challenge, then, for the generation of 1914 was how to rise to describe this so–called Great War, which was at once their defining moment and their
worst nightmare.
Master craftsmen like Robert Graves and Wilfred Owen proved that poetry provided an unmatched immediacy for recording the bombardment and assault of experiences. But poetry, the genre of gentlemen, gave way to ironic memoir and gritty novel as
the preferred form for others as they took more time to process the war (Siegfried Sassoon’s Memoirs of a Fox–Hunting Man, and Erich Maria Remarque’s All Quiet On The Western Front, respectively). Literature was then
just one of the many casualties and victories of the war that changed everything, and continues to haunt us after a hundred years.