Excerpts from letters to his parents from Pfc. Moisés A. Langhorst of the Marines. Private Langhorst, 19, of Moose Lake, Minn., was killed in Al Anbar Province on April 6 by small-arms fire.
March 13
As far as my psychological health, we look out for each other pretty well on that. ... I've been praying a lot and I hope you're praying for the Dirty 3rd Platoon, because there is no doubt that we are in the Valley of the Shadow of Death.
March 15
After standing in the guard tower for seven-and-a-half hours this morning, we went on our first platoon-size patrol from about 1200 to 1700. It was exhausting, but it went very well. I had to carry the patrol pack with emergency chow, a poncho and night vision goggles. That's what really wore me out.
We toured the mosques and visited the troublesome abandoned train station. The people were friendly, and flocks of children followed us everywhere.
When I called you asked me if Iraq is what I expected, and it really is. It looks just like it does on the news. It hardly feels like a war, though. Compared to the wars of the past, this is nothing. We're not standing on line in the open - facing German machine guns like the Marines at Belleau Wood or trying to wade ashore in chest-deep water at Tarawa. We're not facing hordes of screaming men at the frozen Chosun Reservoir in Korea or the clever ambushes of Vietcong. We deal with potshots and I.E.D.'s. With modern medicine my chances of dying are slim to none and my chances of going home unscathed are better than half. Fewer than 10 men in my company have fired their weapons in the 10 days we've been here.
March 24
While not always pleasant, I know this experience is good for me. It makes me appreciate every little blessing God gives me, especially the family, friends and home I left behind in Moose Lake.
More letters are found in the nov.11, 2004 op/ed page in the New York Times
thank you moises, ralph, dad
and all the men and women who have served
i recently sent the following description of "une passante" off to an early discoverer of the work-
czeslaw milosz' poetry has been a deep inspiration for me. his ability to search for meaning or metaphysics even after the horrors in Poland during the 20th century has always been a source of strength for me artistically and spiritually.
when i found out about his recent death i wanted to paint an image pulled from life like a sort of painted poem- a moment that if one is not truly aware will go unseen
title: une passante (in french a female passerby)
this poem by milosz feels to me like the painting:
AN HONEST DESCRIPTION OF
MYSELF WITH A GLASS OF WHISKEY
AT AN AIRPORT, LET US SAY,
IN MINNEAPOLIS
- Czeslaw Milosz
My ears catch less and less of conversations, and my eyes have weakened, though they are still insatiable.
I see their legs in miniskirts, slacks, wavy fabrics.
Peep at each one separately, at their buttocks and thighs, lulled by the imaginings of porn.
Old lecher, it's time for you to the grave, not to the games and amusements of youth.
But I do what I have always done: compose scenes of this earth under orders from the erotic imagination.
It's not that I desire these creatures precisely; I desire everything, and they are like a sign of ecstatic union.
It's not my fault that we are made so, half from disinterested contemplation, half from appetite.
If I should accede one day to Heaven, it must be there as it is here, except that I will be rid of my dull senses and my heavy bones.
Changed into pure seeing, I will absorb, as before, the proportions of human bodies, the color of irises, a Paris street in June at dawn, all of it incomprehensible, incomprehensible the multitude of visible things.