Posts Tagged ‘Joseph Conrad’


Sunday, April 17th, 2016

A. a cumpărat o carte delicioasă pe care voiam să o iau și eu, dar am renunțat când am văzut prețul. Se numește Arta bucătăriei sovietice, de Anya von Bremzen. Zice pe copertă că-i o poveste despre mâncare și nostalgie. Nu e carte de bucate, dar Stalin e pomenit foarte des în text. Asta se întâmplă când terorizezi o țară întreagă vreme de mulți ani – ești pomenit. Not in a good way. Mi-e cam greu s-o las din mână, dar va trebui pentru că am de terminat Victory a lui Joseph Conrad pe care am început-o anul trecut în septembrie pentru ca să trag de un capitol vreo patru sau cinci luni din cauză că tot luam somn și îmi cădea cartea din mână.

Radu Niciporuc a publicat cartea pe care o așteptam demult. Îi spune Pascal desenează corăbii. Abia aștept să mi-o iau. Am citit cândva în Dilemateca niște fragmente care mi-au plăcut tare mult.

Ioan Buteanu are pe 21 lansare la o carte nouă cu tema religioasă.


Thursday, August 6th, 2009

‘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

Dirty weather

Thursday, May 7th, 2009

‘Observing the steady fall of the barometer, Captain MacWhirr thought, “There’s some dirty weather knocking about.” This is precisely what he thought. He had had an experience of moderately dirty weather — the term dirty as applied to the weather implying only moderate discomfort to the seaman. Had he been informed by an indisputable authority that the end of the world was to be finally accomplished by a catastrophic disturbance of the atmosphere, he would have assimilated the information under the simple idea of dirty weather, and no other, because he had no experience of cataclysms, and belief does not necessarily imply comprehension.’

— Joseph Cornad, Typhoon

Mr. Kurtz’s final words

Friday, April 17th, 2009

‘One evening coming in with a candle I was startled to hear him say a little tremulously, “I am lying here in the dark waiting for death.” The light was within a foot of his eyes. I forced myself to murmur, “Oh, nonsense!” and stood over him as if transfixed.

‘Anything approaching the change that came over his features I have never seen before, and hope never to see again. Oh, I wasn’t touched. I was fascinated. It was as though a veil had been rent. I saw on that ivory face the expression of sombre pride, of ruthless power, of craven terror — of an intense and hopeless despair. Did he live his life again in every detail of desire, temptation, and surrender during that supreme moment of complete knowledge? He cried in a whisper at some image, at some vision — he cried out twice, a cry that was no more than a breath:

‘ “The horror! The horror!”

“I blew the candle out and left the cabin. The pilgrims were dining in the mess–room, and I took my place opposite the manager, who lifted his eyes to give me a questioning glance, which I successfully ignored. He leaned back, serene, with that peculiar smile of his sealing the unexpressed depths of his meanness. A continuous shower of small flies streamed upon the lamp, upon the cloth, upon our hands and faces. Suddenly the manager’s boy put his insolent black head in the doorway, and said in a tone of scathing contempt:

‘ “Mistah Kurtz — he dead.”

— Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness