“I don't think I could love you so much if you had nothing to complain of and nothing to regret. I don't like people who have never fallen or stumbled. Their virtue is lifeless and of little value. Life hasn't revealed its beauty to them.”
“How wonderful to be alive, he thought. But why does it always hurt?”
“About dreams. It is usually taken for granted that you dream of something that has made a particularly strong impression on you during the day, but it seems to me it´s just the contrary. Often it´s something you paid no attention to at the time -- a vague thought that you didn´t bother to think out to the end, words spoken without feeling and which passed unnoticed -- these are the things that return at night, clothed in flesh and blood, and they become the subjects of dreams, as if to make up for having been ignored during waking hours.”
“To be a woman is a great adventure;
To drive men mad is a heroic thing.”
“They loved each other, not driven by necessity, by the "blaze of passion" often falsely ascribed to love. They loved each other because everything around them willed it, the trees and the clouds and the sky over their heads and the earth under their feet.”
“You and I, it's as though we have been taught to kiss in heaven and sent down to earth together, to see if we know what we were taught.”
“I have the impression that if he didn't complicate his life so needlessly, he would die of boredom.”
“A conscious attempt to fall asleep is sure to produce insomnia, to try to be conscious of one's own digestion is a sure way to upset the stomach. Consciousness is a poison when we apply it to ourselves. Consciousness is a light directed outward. It's like the headlights on a locomotive—turn them inward and you'd have a crash.”
“It´s a good thing when a man is different from your image of him. Is shows he isn´t a type. If he were, it would be the end of him as a man. But if you can´t place him in a category, it means that at least a part of him is what a human being ought to be. He has risen above himself, he has a grain of immortality.”
“And now listen carefully. You in others-this is your soul. This is what you are. This is what your consciousness has breathed and lived on and enjoyed throughout your life-your soul, your immortality, your life in others. And what now? You have always been in others and you will remain in others. And what does it matter to you if later on that is called your memory? This will be you-the you that enters the future and becomes a part of it.”
“Reshaping life! People who can say that have never understood a thing about life—they have never felt its breath, its heartbeat—however much they have seen or done. They look on it as a lump of raw material that needs to be processed by them, to be ennobled by their touch. But life is never a material, a substance to be molded. If you want to know, life is the principle of self-renewal, it is constantly renewing and remaking and changing and transfiguring itself, it is infinitely beyond your or my obtuse theories about it.”
“I don't like people who have never fallen or stumbled. Their virtue is lifeless and of little value. Life hasn't revealed its beauty to them.”
“Everything had changed suddenly--the tone, the moral climate; you didn't know what to think, whom to listen to. As if all your life you had been led by the hand like a small child and suddenly you were on your own, you had to learn to walk by yourself. There was no one around, neither family nor people whose judgment you respected. At such a time you felt the need of committing yourself to something absolute--life or truth or beauty--of being ruled by it in place of the man-made rules that had been discarded. You needed to surrender to some such ultimate purpose more fully, more unreservedly than you had ever done in the old familiar, peaceful days, in the old life that was now abolished and gone for good.”
“Oh, how one wishes sometimes to escape from the meaningless dullness of human eloquence, from all those sublime phrases, to take refuge in nature, apparently so inarticulate, or in the wordlessness of long, grinding labor, of sound sleep, of true music, or of a human understanding rendered speechless by emotion!”
“I hate everything you say, but not enough to kill you for it.”
“I love you wildly, insanely, infinitely.”
“And remember: you must never, under any circumstances, despair. To hope and to act, these are our duties in misfortune.”
“Art always serves beauty, and beauty is the joy of possessing form, and form is the key to organic life since no living thing can exist without it.”
“She was here on earth to make sense of its wild enchantments.”
“Don't be upset. Don't listen to me. I only meant that I am jealous of a dark, unconscious element, something irrational, unfathomable. I am jealous of your toilet articles, of the drops of sweat on your skin, of the germs in the air you breathe which could get into your blood and poison you. And I am jealous of Komarovsky, as if he were an infectious disease. Someday he will take you away, just as certainly as death will someday separate us. I know this must seem obscure and confused, but I can't say it more clearly. I love you madly, irrationally, infinitely.”
“Oh, what a love it was, utterly free, unique, like nothing else on earth! Their thoughts were like other people's songs.”
“Farewell, my great one, my own, farewell, my pride, farewell, my swift, deep, dear river, how I loved your daylong splashing, how I loved to plunge into your cold waves.”
“Only the solitary seek the truth, and they break with all those who don't love it sufficiently”
“No single man makes history. History cannot be seen, just as one cannot see grass growing. Wars and revolutions, kings and Robespierres, are history's organic agents, its yeast. But revolutions are made by fanatical men of action with one-track mind, geniuses in their ability to confine themselves to a limited field. They overturn the old order in a few hours or days, the whole upheaval takes a few weeks or at most years, but the fanatical spirit that inspired the upheavals is worshiped for decades thereafter, for centuries. ”
“How intense can be the longing to escape from the emptiness and dullness of human verbosity, to take refuge in nature, apparently so inarticulate, or in the wordlessness of long, grinding labour, of sound sleep, of true music, or of a human understanding rendered speechless by emotion!”
“But the division in him was a sorrow and a torment, and he became accustomed to it only as one gets used to an unhealed and frequently reopened wound.”
“الأغنية محاولة مجنونة لإيقاف الزمن بالكلمات”
“No deep and strong feeling, such as we may come across here and there in the world, is unmixed with compassion. The more we love, the more the object of our love seems to be a victim.”
“كل النساء هن أمهات رجال عظام ، ولا لوم عليهن إذا ما خيبت الحياة أملهن فيما بعد”
“If it's so painful to love and absorb electricity, how much more painful it is to be a woman, to be the electricity, to inspire love.”
“He needed to crawl inside of her, share her skin, bury himself deep so she could pour the sun over him and steer him away from the shadows always clawing pieces out of him.”
“City of Wizards is normally quite a GOOD thing, since only Good WIZARDS seem able to live together. . . .There have been cities of EVIL Wizards in the past. You will occasionally come across the sites of these, reduced to a glassy slag during the ultimate disagreement.”
“...и въпреки това и сега не вярвахме, че е истина, и не защото наистина не вярвахме, а защото не искахме да е истина, бяхме стигнали дотам, че вече не знаехме какво ще стане с нас без него, какво ще стане с нашия живот след него, не можех да си представя света без човека, който на дванайсет години беше ме направил толкова щастлива, както никой друг по-късно не можа да ме направи след онези отминали преди толкова време следобеди, когато излизахме от училище в пет, а той дебнеше от капандурите на обора момичетата в сини униформи с моряшка яка и коси, сплетени отзад само на една плитка, като си мислеше, майчице Бендисион Алварадо, колко били красиви жените на моята възраст, викаше ни, виждахме тръпнещите му очи, ръката в ръкавици със скъсани пръсти, която се мъчеше да ни изкуси с карамеленото звънче на посланика Форбес, всички се разбягаха изплашени, всички освен аз, аз останах сама на улицата пред училището и когато разбрах, че никой не ме гледа, опитах се да грабна бонбона и тогава той ме сграбчи за китките с нежните тигрови лапи и ме вдигна във въздуха, без да ми причинява болка, и ме прокара с такова внимание през капандурата, че не развали нито едно плисе на полата ми, и ме сложи да легна във вмирисаното на застояла урина сено, като се мъчеше да ми каже нещо, което не излизаше от сухата му уста, защото беше по-изплашен и от мен, трепереше, под куртката му се усещаха ударите на сърцето, беше блед, очите му бяха пълни със сълзи, както на никой мъж през целия ми изгнанически живот, пипаше ме мълчешката, дишаше бавно, опипваше ме с нежност, каквато никога вече не срещнах, зърната на гърдите ми наедряваха, не му бяха нужни повече карамелите на посланика Балдрих, за да се вмъквам през капандурите на обора, та да изживея щастливите часове на пубертета си с тоя мъж с чисто и тъжно сърце, който ме чакаше седнал в сеното,...”
“After a long while he sat upright with great effort, exhaled a sigh and reached for a clean sheet of lined paper, smoothing it out on the desk. He unscrewed the lid of his fountain pen, laid it perpendicular to his paper, and began to write. Often he compared his writing to white water. He had only to leap in to be dragged away on its rapids, thrown this way and that with his own will rendered impotent. While writing he found the words came from the muscles in his hands, the feel of the shaft of his pen, the locked joint of his elbow. the scratching noise of the nib marking paper and, underneath all that, some coordinating impulse in his guts. Certainly not from his mind.”
“Forgiveness was a strange gift. One that had to be shared in order to be kept.”
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