Erich Maria Remarque · 464 pages
Rating: (14.7K votes)
“-Why does a man live?
-In order to think about it...”
“Ни один человек не может стать более чужим, чем тот, которого ты в прошлом любил...”
“Anything you can settle with money is cheap.”
“Come let me kiss you. Life was never so precious as today— when it meant so little.”
“I don’t want to get old.”
“You won’t get old. Life will pass over your face, that will be all, and it will become more beautiful. One is old only when one no longer feels.”
“No. When one no longer loves.”
“Love should not be polluted with friendship.”
“I’ll tell you the story of the wave and the rock. It’s an old story. Older than we are. Listen. Once upon a time there was a wave who loved a rock in the sea, let us say in the Bay of Capri. The wave foamed and swirled around the rock, she kissed him day and night, she embraced him with her white arms, she sighed and wept and besought him to come to her. She loved him and stormed about him and in that way slowly undermined him, and one day he yielded, completely undermined, and sank into her arms.”
“And suddenly he was no longer a rock to be played with, to be loved, to be dreamed of. He was only a block of stone at the bottom of the sea, drowned in her. The wave felt disappointed and deceived and looked for another rock
“What does that mean? He should have remained a rock.”
“The wave always says that. But things that move are stronger than immovable things. Water is stronger than rocks.”
“The best way to lose a woman was to show her a kind of life that one could offer her for only a few days.”
“There was only the broad square with the scattered dim moons of the street lamps and with the monumental stone arch which receded into the mist as though it would prop up the melancholy sky and protect beneath itself the faint lonely flame on the tomb of the Unknown Soldier, which looked like the last grave of mankind in the midst of night and loneliness.”
“Am I jealous? he thought, astonished. Jealous of the chance object to which she has attached herself? Jealous of something that does not concern me? One can be jealous of a love that has turned away, but not of that to which it has turned.”
“(Ravic speaking of a butterfly caught in the Louvre) In the morning it would search for flowers and life and the light honey of blossoms and would not find them and later it would fall asleep on millennial marble, weakened by then, until the grip of the delicate, tenacious feet loosened and it fell, a thin leaf of premature autumn.”
“Още една жена, която не знае къде да отиде. Нощем не знаят къде да отидат, а сутрин изчезват преди да се събудиш. Тогава знаят къде да отидат. Познато, евтино отчаяние, което настъпва с нощта и изчезва с нея.”
“Много силно ли? Какво можеше да е много силно? Само тишината. Тишината, в която човек чувства, че ще се пръсне....като в безвъздушно пространство. ”
“When we love each other we are immortal and indestructible like the heartbeat and the rain and the wind.”
“The simplest and the most incredible thing in the world had come true again: two people speaking to each other, each for himself; and sounds, called words, shaped the same images and feelings in that palpitating mass behind the skull, and out of meaningless vibrations of the vocal chords and their unexplainable reactions in the viscous gray convolutions, skies suddenly grew again in which were mirrored clouds, brooks, past times, growth and decay and hard-won wisdom.”
“Ljubav nije jezero u kome se uvek može ogledati... ona ima plimu i oseku i olupine i potonule gradove i bure i kovčege sa zlatom i bisere… ali biseri su duboko...”
“Вера легко ведет к фанатизму. Вот почему во имя религии пролито столько крови.”
“What do you know about me? What do you know about love that comes into a life in which everything has become questionable? What is your cheap intoxication compared to that? When falling and falling suddenly changes, when the endless Why becomes the final You, when like a fata morgana above the desert of silence feeling suddenly arises, takes shape, and inexorably the delusion of the blood becomes a landscape compared with which all dreams are pale and commonplace? A landscape of silver, a city of filigree and rose quartz, shining like the bright reflection of blooming blood—what do you know about it? Do you think that one can talk about it so easily? That a glib tongue can quickly press it into a cliché of words or even of feelings? What do you know about graves that open and how one stands in dread of the many colorless empty nights of yesterday—yet they open and no skeletons now lie bleaching there, only earth is there, earth, fertile seeds, and already the first green. What do you know about that? You love the intoxication, the conquest, the Other You that wants to die in you and that will never die, you love the stormy deceit of the blood, but your heart will remain empty because one cannot keep anything that does not grow from within oneself. And not much can grow in a storm. It is in the empty nights of loneliness that it grows, if one does not despair. What do you know about it?”
“To be alone—the eternal refrain of life. It wasn’t better or worse than anything else. One talked too much about it. One was always and never alone. A violin, suddenly—somewhere out of a twilight—in a garden on the hills around Budapest. The heavy scent of chestnuts. The wind. And dreams crouched on one’s shoulders like young owls, their eyes becoming lighter in the dusk. A night that never became night. The hour when all women were beautiful.”
“I don’t know what it is. I simply can’t stand it. It’s like a hand reaching out of the dark. It is fear—blind fear as if it were lying in wait somewhere for me.”
“Everything was all right. That which had been and that which was still to come. It was enough. If it were the end, it was all right so. He had loved somebody and lost her. He had hated another and killed him. Both had freed him. One had brought his feelings to life again; the other had eradicated his past. Nothing remained behind unfulfilled. No desire was left; no hatred, nor any lament. If this were a new beginning, then that was what it was. One would start without expectation, prepared for many things, with the simple strength of experience which had strengthened and not torn asunder. The ashes had been cleared away. Paralyzed places were alive again. Cynicism had turned into strength. It was all right.”
“Не е вярно — помисли той. — Полусън в бавно гаснещата нощ. Как могат да бъдат верни думите, казани в тъмнина? Искрените слова искат много светлина.”
“She was very beautiful and he felt he loved her. She was not beautiful as a state or a picture is beautiful; she was beautiful as a meadow across which the wind blows. It was life that pulsed in her and that had formed her into what she was.”
“There was always a screen behind which one could hide— a superior who in turn had his superior— orders, instructions, duties, commands— and finally the many-headed monster, morale, necessity, hard reality, responsibility, or whatever it was called— there was always a screen behind which to evade the simple law of humanity.”
“Что бы с вами ни случилось - ничего не принимайте близко к сердцу. Немногое на свете долго бывает важным (Гл. I).
Но кем бы ты ни был - поэтом, полубогом или идиотом, все равно, - каждые
несколько часов ты должен спускаться с неба на землю, чтобы помочиться. От
этого не уйти. Ирония природы. Романтическая радуга над рефлексами желез,
над пищеварительным урчанием (Гл. II).
Свободен лишь тот, кто утратил все, ради чего стоит жить (Гл. III).
Париж - единственный в мире город, где можно отлично проводить время, ничем по существу не занимаясь (Гл. IV).
Равик смотрел в окно. О чем еще думать? У него уже почти ничего не
осталось. Он жил, и этого было достаточно. Он жил в неустойчивую эпоху. К чему пытаться что-то строить, если вскоре все неминуемо рухнет? Уж лучше плыть по течению, не растрачивая сил, ведь они - единственное, что невозможно восстановить. Выстоять! Продержаться до тех пор, пока снова не появится цель. И чем меньше истратишь сил, тем лучше, - пусть они останутся про запас. В век, когда все рушится, вновь и вновь, с муравьиным упорством строить солидную жизнь? Он знал, сколько людей терпело крах на этом пути. Это было трогательно, героично, смешно... и бесполезно. Только подрывало
силы. Невозможно удержать лавину, катящуюся с гор. И всякий, кто попытается это сделать, будет раздавлен ею. Лучше переждать, а потом откапывать заживо погребенных. В дальний поход бери легкую поклажу. При бегстве тоже... (Гл. IV)
Почему набожные люди так нетерпимы? Самый легкий характер у циников, самый невыносимый - у идеалистов. Не наталкивает ли это вас на размышления? (Гл. VI)
Дешево только то, что носишь без чувства уверенности в себе (Гл. VIII).
Если выберусь отсюда, поеду в Италию. В Фьезоле. Там у меня тихий
старый дом с садом. Хочу пожить там немного. Теперь в Фьезоле еще, пожалуй, прохладно. Бледное весеннее солнце. В полдень на южной стене дома появляются первые ящерицы. Вечером из Флоренции доносится перезвон колоколов. А ночью сквозь кипарисы видны луна и звезды. В доме есть книги и большой камин. Перед ним деревянные скамьи, можно посидеть у огонька. В камине специальный держатель для стакана, чтобы подогревать вино. И совсем нет людей. Только двое стариков, муж и жена. Следят за порядком (Гл. XI).
Любить - это когда хочешь с кем-то состариться (Гл. XI).
Давай-ка посидим, полюбуемся красивейшей в мире улицей, восславим этот мягкий вечер и хладнокровно плюнем отчаянию в морду (Гл. XII).
Длинные, нескончаемые ряды домов, протянувшиеся вдоль бесконечных улиц; ряд окон, а за ними - целые пачки человеческих судеб... (Гл. XII).
Нет. Мы не умираем. Умирает время. Проклятое время. Оно умирает
непрерывно. А мы живем. Мы неизменно живем. Когда ты просыпаешься, на дворе весна, когда засыпаешь - осень, а между ними тысячу раз мелькают зима и лето, и, если мы любим друг друга, мы вечны и бессмертны, как биение сердца, или дождь, или ветер, - и это очень много. Мы выгадываем дни, любимая моя, и теряем годы! Но кому какое дело, кого это тревожит? Мгновение радости - вот жизнь! Лишь оно ближе всего к вечности. Твои глаза мерцают, звездная пыль струится сквозь бесконечность, боги дряхлеют, но твои губы юны. Между нами трепещет загадка - Ты и Я, Зов и Отклик, рожденные вечерними сумерками, восторгами всех, кто любил... Это как сон лозы, перебродивший в бурю золотого хмеля... Крики исступленной страсти... Они доносятся из самых
стародавних времен... Бесконечный путь ведет от амебы к Руфи, и Эсфири, и Елене, и Аспазии, к голубым Мадоннам придорожных часовен, от рептилий и животных - к тебе и ко мне... (Гл. XII).”
“Love is not a businessman who wants to see a return on his investments. And imagination needs only a few nails on which to hang its veil. Whether they are of gold, tin, or covered with rust makes no difference to it. Wherever it gets caught, it is caught. Thornbush or rosebush, as soon as the veil of moonlight and mother-of-pearl has fallen on it, either becomes a fairy tale out of A Thousand and One Nights”
“We have our dreams because without them we could not bear the truth.”
“- В клинике, как в монастыре, - сказала она. - Заново учишься ценить
самые простые вещи. Начинаешь понимать, что это значит - ходить, дышать,
видеть.
- Да. Счастья кругом - сколько угодно. Только нагибайся и подбирай.
Она удивленно посмотрела на него.
- Я говорю серьезно, Равик.
- И я, Кэт. Только самые простые вещи никогда не разочаровывают.
Счастье достается как-то очень просто и всегда намного проще, чем думаешь (гл. XIII).
- Потому что... - сказал Равик. - Прижмись ко мне теснее, любимая,
вновь возвращенная из бездны сна, вернувшаяся с лунных лугов... потому что
ночь и сон - предатели. Помнишь, как мы заснули сегодня ночью друг возле
друга - мы были так близки, как только могут быть близки люди... Мы слились
воедино лицом, телом, мыслями, дыханьем... И вдруг нас разлучил сон. Он
медленно просачивался, серый, бесцветный, - сначала пятно, потом еще и
еще... Как проказа, он оседал на наших мыслях, проникал в кровь из мрака
бессознательного, капля за каплей в нас вливалась слепота, и вдруг каждый
остался один, и в полном одиночестве мы поплыли куда-то по темным каналам,
отданные во власть неведомых сил и безликой угрозы. Проснувшись, я увидел
тебя. Ты спала. Ты все еще была далеко-далеко. Ты совсем ускользнула от
меня. Ты ничего больше обо мне не знала. Ты оказалась там, куда я не мог
последовать за тобой. - Он поцеловал ее руку. - Разве может быть любовь
совершенной, если каждую ночь, едва уснув, я теряю тебя? (гл. XV)
... сторонник простых радостей (гл. ХХХI)
- Аристократия отбыла, - сказал Зейденбаум. - Теперь здесь остались
одни лишь приговоренные к пожизненному заключению и к смертной казни.
Избранный народ! Любимцы Иеговы. Специально предназначенные для погромов. Да здравствует жизнь! (гл. XXXII)”
“See what has become of us. As far as I know, only the old Greeks had gods of drinking and the joy of life: Bacchus and Dionysus. Instead of that we have Freud, inferiority complexes and the psychoanalysis. We’re afraid of the too great words in love and not afraid of much too great words in politics. A sorry generation!”
“Every Fey warrior and shei'dalin born in the Fading Lands learns very early in life that, like it or not - fair or not - there will be many days when they must decide between a bad choice and a worse one. Today is such a day.”
“I believe the world of the spirit is in general greatly neglected and not at all served by the practice of faith as we know it, because religion isn't individual enough.”
“I took the one letter he had for us. It was from the Switchblade Gas & Electric Company. I didn't know I had admirers there too, but I wasn't that surprised. I threw it in the trash with the IRS's love letters and closed the door without reply.”
“Don't expect me to be perfect. Despite all my lives, I'm still only human. I can't deliver perfection, and I'll only disappoint you. But I want you to know that you are the most important person to me. I'm trying to protect you.
Sometimes I screw things up. I may even tell a white lie every now and then. But you have to give me the benefit of the doubt.”
“I pulled away. He stopped me with a hand on my wrist. “Wait,” he said. “I know what you’re thinking.”
“What?”
“It’s written all over your face.” He pushed a lock of hair out of my eyes. “I’m not going anywhere.”
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