“You don't write because someone sets assignments! You write because you need to write, or because you hope someone will listen or because writing will mend something broken inside you or bring something back to life.”
“Some things can be both real and imaginary at the same time, . . . some lies can be true, . . . broken faith may be restored.”
“The right circumstances sometimes happen of their own accord, slyly, without fanfare, without warning. Layman's alchemy. . . . The magic of everyday things.”
“The process of writing is a little like madness, a kind of possession not altogether benign.”
“A few hundred years ago there were no differences between magic and medicine.”
“It isn't just a village. The houses aren't just places to live. Everything belongs to everybody. Everyone belongs to everyone else. Even a single person can make a difference.”
“Their love was something which coloured the air between them like sunlight.”
“So much of his life seemed to be like this now, a blur of days without anything to define them from each other, like episodes of a soap he watched out of habit, even though none of the characters interested him.”
“The day stretched out in front of him like an empty road in the desert.”
“He drank, for the same reason he wrote second-rate science fiction. Not to forget but to remember, to open the past and find himself there again. He opened each bottle, began each story with the secret conviction that here was the magic drought that would restore him. But magic, like wine, needs the right conditions in order to work.”
“He was the cleanest-cut comic-book schoolboy hero imaginable.”
“There was a quote he could not quite remember, something about the past being an island surrounded by time. He had missed the last boat to the island.”
“You may be a foreigner, but you have the heart of a Frenchman.”
“And yet I could still hear them. As if some part of their essence had evaporated into the air, become a part of this place, ingrained, like the scent of cigarettes and burning sugar, in the woodwork and plaster. Everything was buzzing with that vanished presence, buzzing and singing and laughing louder than ever before, stone and tile and polished wood, all whispering with agitation and excitement; never still, never silent.”
“Too much balast slows you down.”
“Виното говори. Всички го знаят. Огледайте се наоколо. Попитайте оракула на ъгъла на улицата; неканения гост на сватбеното тържество; блажения безумец. То говори. Говори като вентрилок. Има милион гласове. Развързва езика, извежда на бял свят тайни, които никога не сте искали да споделите, тайни, които дори не сте знаели. То крещи, декламира, шепне. Разказва за велики дела, блестящи планове, трагични любовни истории и ужасяващи предателства. Пищи от смях. Тихо се подсммихва под мустак. Плаче пред собственото си отражение. Връща ни към отдавна отминали лета и най-грижливо забравени спомени. Всяка бутилка носи полъха на други времена, други места, всяко едно - от най-простото "Либфраумилх" до високомерното "Вьов Клико" от 1945 година - малко чудо. Всекидневна магия, както го наричаше Джо. Трансформиране на основна материя в свят от мечти. Лаическа алхимия.”
“All right, Monsieur Jay,' she said, smiling. 'I'll tell them you're OK.”
“Вы пишете не потому, что кто-то даёт задания! Вы пишете потому, что не можете не писать, или потому, что надеетесь – вас кто-то услышит, или чтобы починить то, что внутри вас сломалось, или вернуть что-то к жизни...
Здесь люди держатся за обычаи. Церковь. Семья. Земля. Вот почему так много молодых уезжают. Им подавай то, о чём в журналах написано. Им подавай города, машины, клубы, магазины. Но всегда есть те, кто остаётся. И те, кто возвращается.”
“How can days and happenings and moments so good become so quickly ugly, and for no reason, for no real reason? Just - change.
With nothing causing it.”
“One should not seek those who do not wish to be found.”
“It’s terribly, terribly important recording what we’ve done, in words, on paper, it’s got to be our way of telling ourselves that we mean something, that we matter. That the things we’ve done have made a difference. I don’t know how big a difference, but a difference. Writing it down means we might be remembered. And by God that matters to us. None of us wants to end up as a pile of dead white bones, unnoticed, unknown, and worst of all, with no one knowing or appreciating the risks we’ve run.”
“What are reason and sobriety without the knowledge of intoxication?”
“It did not seem possible that Wendy Wright had been born out of blood and internal organs like other people. In proximity to her he felt himself to be a squat, oily, sweating, uneducated nurt whose stomach rattled and whose breath wheezed. Near her he became aware of the physical mechanisms which kept him alive; within him machinery, pipes and valves and gas-compressors and fan belts had to chug away at a losing task, a labor ultimately doomed. Seeing her face, he discovered that his own consisted of a garish mask; noticing her body made him feel like a low-class wind-up toy.”
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