I've read that, on Christmas last, soldiers left their entrenched positions and met on the open battlefield, exchanging badges, even singing. I, however, abide in my cinema-trench, the images passing on the screen--and "Silent Night" is in my mouth, as well--but unsung: To forget the War, I fear I have also forgotten Christmas. "Motion pictures" suddenly seems a mocking term, as I remain unmoved--the meanings of that word sounding like accusations. Despite all my excited ramblings in this diary, to my dismay I have discovered a principle function of the cinema: as stupefacient.
Editor's note: The Archduke Franz Ferdinand in Sarajevo, 1914
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