Seven Nights

Personally, I am a hedonistic reader; I have never read a book merely because it was ancient. I read books for the aesthetic emotions they offer me, and I ignore the commentaries and criticism.

I...have always known that my destiny was, above all, a literary destiny — that bad things and some good things would happen to me, but that, in the long run, all of it would be converted into words. Particularly the bad things, since happiness does not need to be transformed: happiness is its own end.

The gods weave misfortunes for men, so that the generations to come will have something to sing about.” Mallarmé repeats, less beautifully, what Homer said; “tout aboutit en un livre,” everything ends up in a book. The Greeks speak of generations that will sing; Mallarmé speaks of an object, of a thing among things, a book. But the idea is the same; the idea that we are made for art, we are made for memory, we are made for poetry, or perhaps we are made for oblivion. But something remains, and that something is history or poetry, which are not essentially different.

A writer, or any man, must believe that whatever happens to him is an instrument; everything has been given for an end. This is even stronger in the case of the artist. Everything that happens, including humiliations, embarrassments, misfortunes, all has been given like clay, like material for one's art. One must accept it.

Emerson said that a library is a magic chamber in which there are many enchanted spirits. They wake when we call them. When the book lies unopened, it is literally, geometrically, a volume, a thing among things. When we open it, when the book surrenders itself to its reader, the aesthetic event occurs. And even for the same reader the same book changes, for the change; we are the river of Heraclitus, who said that the man of yesterday is not the man of today, who will not be the man of tomorrow. We change incessantly, and each reading of a book, each rereading, each memory of that rereading, reinvents the text. The text too is the changing river of Heraclitus.

Neden doğrudan metinleri incelemiyorsunuz? Eğer metinler hoşunuza giderlerse ne âlâ; eğer hoşunuza gitmezlerse onları hemen bırakın, zira zoraki okuma kadar saçma bir eylem olamaz, onun yerine zoraki mutluluktan bahsetmeyi yeğlerim. Bence şiir hissedilen bir şey ve eğer siz şiiri hissetmiyorsanız, eğer güzellik hissiniz yoksa, eğer bir öykü sizde daha sonra ne olacağını bilme arzusu uyandırmıyorsa, yazar onu sizin için yazmamıştır. Onu bir kenara bırakın, edebiyat dikkatinize layık olan ya da olmayan, yarın okuyacağınız başka bir yazarı size sunacak kadar zengindir.

Ajatus pakollisesta lukemisesta on absurdi: Yhtä hyvin voisi puhua pakollisesta onnellisuudesta. Uskon, että runous on jotain jonka tuntee, ja joillei runous herätä teissä tunnetta, jollette tunne sitä kauniiksi, joillei kertomus herätä teissä halua tietää mitä sitten tapahtui, tekijä ei ole kirjoittanut teille. Pankaa hänen kirjansa syrjään, sillä kirjallisuus on kyllin rikas tarjotakseen teille kirjailijan, joka on teidän huomionne arvoinen, tai ei huomionne arvoinen tänään, mutta te luette sen huomenna. s. 82

It only takes two facing mirrors to construct a labyrinth. from “Nightmares

A writer lives. The task of being a poet is not completed at a fixed schedule. No one is a poet from eight to twelve and from two to six. Whoever is a poet is one always, and continually assaulted by poetry.