Archive for the ‘Quotes’ Category
Iar Isus! Dacă n-ar fi fost el, ce simplu ar fi fost totul: ar fi putut să stea așa o veșnicie, uitându-se unul la altul, în timp ce ea își bea sucul de roșii.
– Eu sunt catolic. Tu ce ești?
– Eu sunt sora Katiei.
– Andrés Barba, Sora Katiei
And C. doesn’t have any notion of being safe with someone one loves in order to be freer (from anxiety, from love starvation) to do something else specifically, to fulfill one’s projects. (I’m sure Beatrice knows about this.) Once again, she doesn’t have any projects. There is no activity of a public nature – except perhaps the creation of her personal appearance: her clothes, etc. – in which she feels herself competent, or even imagines that she typically, self-indulgently, irresponsibly becomes competent. Her lack of self-love, of self-esteem is so great that she wouldn’t consider valuable any activity in which she was competent – and, certainly, it prevents her from trying responsibly to gain competence in any activity she does admire.
– Susan Sontag, As Consciousness Is Harnessed to Flesh: Journals and Notebooks, 1964-1980
“Omul-mlaștină este îmbâcsit de informații inutile, îmi explică Geroge. Omul-mlaștină culege informații de peste tot, de pe stradă, din vitrine, de la televizor, de la radio, de pe telefonul mobil sau de pe Ipod-ul său, de pe computer și de pe Internet, de pe Facebook și din ziare… Îm fiecare secundă aproape omul-mlaștină se află în fața unui ecran. El devine o sugativă informațională, înghite tot, aspiră tot, se hrănește cu inutilitatea imaginilor și a mesajelor primite. Creierele noastre devin niște mlaștini, acesta este adevărul. Personal nu-mi simt creierul pe cale de-a deveni o mlaștină informațională, dar tot ce spune George mi se pare interesant.
– Iar natura unei mlaștini în ce constă? mă întreabă Geroge.
– În faptul că stagnează.
– Ia te uită! Bravo!”
– Matei Vișniec, Dezordinea preventivă
‘”I believe that life is a mess,” he answered promptly. “It is like yeast, a ferment, a thing that moves and may move for a minute, an hour, a year, or a hundred years, but that in the end will cease to move. The big eat the little that they may continue to move, the strong eat the weak that they may retain their strength. The lucky eat the most and move the longest, that is all. What do you make of those things?”‘
– Jack London, The Sea Wolf
‘“Not at all. Plain fact. Whether it’s the fragment of coding, the fragment of engineering, the fragment of gunnery-you’ll find them all predigested and regulated to a point where you’d have to search the insane asylums to find people who could muff the jobs. Remember that one point. It explains, and reconciles you to, all the Navy Regulations, and all the required reports, and all the emphasis on memory and obedience, and all the standardized ways of doing things. The Navy is a master plan designed by geniuses for execution by idiots. If you’re not an idiot, but find yourself in the Navy, you can only operate well by pretending to be one. All the shortcuts and economies and common-sense changes that your native intelligence suggests to you are mistakes. Learn to quash them. Constantly ask yourself, ‘How would I do this if I were a fool?’ Throttle down your mind to a crawl. Then you’ll never go wrong- Well, that cleans up brother Carmody’s traffic, he added, pushing aside the heap of despatches. “Want me to do yours?””
– Herman Wouk, The Caine Mutiny
“If you want to really hurt your parents, and you don’t have the nerve to be gay, the least you can do is go into the arts. I’m not kidding. The arts are not a way to make a living. They are a very human way of making life more bearable. Practicing an art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow, for heaven’s sake. Sing in the shower. Dance to the radio. Tell stories. Write a poem to a friend, even a lousy poem. Do it as well as you possibly can. You will get an enormous reward. You will have created something.”
– Kurt Vonnegut, A Man without a Country
‘Acum văd cu bucurie că Negru și-a însușit o altă lecție importantă: dacă nu dorești să ai deziluzii în pictură și în artă, trebuie să ai grijă să nu-ți faci o meserie din ele. Oricât de talentat și de iscusit ai fi, caută banii și puterea în altă parte, astfel încât să nu te superi pe artă dacă nu te alegi cu nimic de pe urma harului și a muncii tale.’
– Orhan Pamuk, Mă numesc Roșu
‘Am coborât din mașină și am început să șterg parbrizul. Brusc, ceva începu să-mi joace deasupra capului. M-am uitat împrejur. Deasupra porții se facea cât mai comod un gigantic motan cenușiu-închis, pestriț, de când sunt n-am mai văzut așa ceva. Lenevea sătul, uitându-se nepăsător la mine cu ochii lui galbeni. “Psss-pss-pss”, m-am pomenit chemându-l din reflex. Motanul căscă politicos și distant, arătându-și colții, scoase din gâtlej un sunet răgușit, apoi se întoarse și începu să privească în curtea interioară.’
– Arkadi & Boris Strugațki, Lunea începe sâmbătă; Jimmy Smith, The Cat
‘No; I can’t forget him, though I am not prepared to affirm the fellow was exactly worth the life we lost in getting to him. I missed my late helmsman awfully — I missed him even while his body was still lying in the pilot–house. Perhaps you will think it passing strange this regret for a savage who was no more account than a grain of sand in a black Sahara. Well, don’t you see, he had done something, he had steered; for months I had him at my back — a help — an instrument. It was a kind of partnership. He steered for me — I had to look after him, I worried about his deficiencies, and thus a subtle bond had been created, of which I only became aware when it was suddenly broken. And the intimate profundity of that look he gave me when he received his hurt remains to this day in my memory — like a claim of distant kinship affirmed in a supreme moment.
“Poor fool! If he had only left that shutter alone. He had no restraint, no restraint — just like Kurtz — a tree swayed by the wind. As soon as I had put on a dry pair of slippers, I dragged him out, after first jerking the spear out of his side, which operation I confess I performed with my eyes shut tight. His heels leaped together over the little doorstep; his shoulders were pressed to my breast; I hugged him from behind desperately. Oh! he was heavy, heavy; heavier than any man on earth, I should imagine. Then without more ado I tipped him overboard. The current snatched him as though he had been a wisp of grass, and I saw the body roll over twice before I lost sight of it for ever.’
— Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness; Clarles Lloyd, Migration of Spirit