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Stumbleupon Review of :
http://www.mark-grosset-photographies.com/

Mark Grosset Photographies vous propose une brève et subjective histoire de la photographie russe de 1890 à 1950.

Le drapeau rouge flotte sur le toit du Reichstag (2 mai 1945).

Dans le ciel de Sébastopol (montage 1944).

Première parade aérienne à Moscou (1933).

Couple en barque à Kaljazin (1932).

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A form of time travel perhaps 🙂
It’s amazing how different things can become given a few short decades or hundreds of miles of travel.
I remember growing up we had these old books, pictorial histories of WWII, Great ship battles, bombs falling, coventry in rubble.
It really was a differnt world.
And then of course there was the book about trench warfare, also with pictures of fun things like trench foot (don’t click if you have weak constitution [resists urge to bait U.S. Americans :D]) and others as the conscripts basically rotted alive in their muddy holes.

as Wilfred Owen had it

Dulce Et Decorum Est

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime…
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, –
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

Or, Seigfried Sassoon:

“Let no one ever, from henceforth say one word in any way countenancing war. It is dangerous even to speak of how here and there the individual may gain some hardship of soul by it. For war is hell, and those who institute it are criminals. Were there even anything to say for it, it should not be said; for its spiritual disasters far outweigh any of its advantages.”
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