En sonra, birinci savaş konseyini, bir sanığa gizli kalan bir belgeye dayanarak hüküm giydirdiği için hukuku çiğnemekle suçluyorum. İkinci savaş konseyini de üstten gelen emre uyarak, bir suçluyu, suçunu bile bile temize çıkarıp ağır adli suç işlemekle, böylece birinci konseyin yasaya aykırı davranışını örtbas etmekle suçluyorum.
Then said he, ’I am going to my Father’s; and though with great difficulty I am got hither, yet now I do not repent me of all the trouble I have been at to arrive where I am. My sword I give to him that shall succeed me in my pilgrimage, and my courage and skill to him that can get it. My marks and scars I carry with me, to be a witness for me that I have fought His battles who now will be my rewarder.’.... So he passed over, and all the trumpets sounded for him on the other side.
أيعقل أن يوجد في هذا العالم النابض بالظلم والأحقاد والشراسة إنسان بلا أنياب أو مخالب
But even now, with the crates piled high in the hall, what I see most plainly about the books is that they are beautiful. They take up room? Of course they do: they are an environment; atoms, not bits. My books are not dead weight, they are live weight — matter infused by spirit, every one of them, even the silliest. They do not block the horizon; they draw it. They free me from the prison of contemporaneity: one should not live only in one’s own time. A wall of books is a wall of windows.
It is precisely, if paradoxically, because reversal is in the service of repetition (so as to ensure, alongside its companion strategies, a dizzying proliferation of citations) that it gains a subversive power rather than remain a mere dependent (and thus conservative) form of social discourse. Reversal plays a double role in this novel (MONSIEUR VENUS), for it is not only a formal strategy bearing on citation, but itself a citation as well; one more cliché mobilized from the fin-de-siecle reserve.
Todo éxito es una apología de lo vulgar. Cualquier libro que rebasa los cien ejemplares es un fracaso para el buen gusto. ¿O qué habría de pensarse de un mismo libro leído simultáneamente por cien mil personas? ¿Se diría que lo que se está leyendo es literatura?, ¿qué tan complaciente habrá de ser ese libro para satisfacer a tantos lectores? ¿O es que la inteligencia está tan democráticamente repartida?
Ah nerede o günler, gerçekten öldüğüm zaman, şöyle aklı başında biri çıkıp beni denize filan atıverse, ne iyi olurdu. Ne yaparlarsa yapsınlar da, beni lanet bir mezara tıkmasınlar. Pazar günleri millet gelip karnınızın üstüne bir sürü çiçek filan koyacak, daha bir sürü zırvalık. Öldükten sonra çiçeği kim ne yapsın?
La poesía, en un primer impulso, destruye los objetos que aprehende, los restituye, mediante esa destrucción, a la inasible fluidez de la existencia del poeta, y a ese precio espera encontrar la identidad del mundo y del hombre. Pero al mismo tiempo que realiza un desasimiento, intenta asir (captar) ese desasimiento. Y lo único que le es dado hacer es sustituir el desasimiento a las cosas asidas (captadas) de la vida reducida: no puede evitar que el desasimiento pase a ocupar el lugar de las cosas.
I want to be able to do anything with words: handle slashing, flaming descriptions like Wells, and use the paradox with the clarity of Samuel Butler, the breadth of Bernard Shaw and the wit of Oscar Wilde, I want to do the wide sultry heavens of Conrad, the rolled-gold sundowns and crazy-quilt skies of Hitchens and Kipling as well as the pastel dawns and twilights of Chesterton. All that is by way of example. As a matter of fact I am a professed literary thief, hot after the best methods of every writer in my generation.
There is nothing in the world which an artist cannot recreate into something poetic, ennobling. And why do we read these things? They are not facts, they do not improve our business skills, our techniques in manufacturing goods, the management of a home. That is what most of you will be doing anyway. We read these because they teach us about people, we can see ourselves in them, in their problems. And by seeing ourselves in them, we clarify ourselves, we explain ourselves to ourselves, so we can live with ourselves…
They were readers for whom literature was a drug, each complex plot line delivering a new high, suspending them above reality, allowing them a magical crossover...They had spoken often, with rueful honesty, of how the books they read represented escape, offered pathways to literary landscapes that intrigued and engrossed...From childhood on, books had been the hot air balloons that carried them above the angry mutterings of quarreling parents, schoolyard rejections, academic boredom...They were of a kind, readers from birth.
He gave it its present name, and lived here shut up: day and night poring over the wicked heaps of papers in the suit, and hoping against hope to disentangle it from its mystification and bring it to a close. In the meantime, the place became dilapidated, the wind whistled through the cracked walls, the rain fell through the broken roof, the weeds choked the passage to the rotting door. When I brought what remained of him home here, the brains seemed to me to have been blown out of the house too; it was so shattered and ruined.
نحن حين نحب لا نتساءل على الأعمار، لا تشغلنا الظروف، لا تؤرقنا الحقائق، ولا تهمنا الصغائر.
I think that the thematic, formal history of the literary form ultimately harkens back to a different political system. That is to say, a feudal order: the aristocratic dispensation of leisure time, the refinements of the self. With the shift from feudal aristocracy to democracy there has been a long process of evolution. I think we’re in the throes of a kind of steep, logarithmic shift, and I think that literary forms are losing their capacity to connect people to issues, to the experiences that feel most meaningful to them.
Raflara doğru ilerledi Stoddart Lectures kitabın birinci cildi ile geri döndü. "Görüyor musunuz?" diye bağırdı muzaffer bir edayla, "İşte hakiki bir kitap. Ne kadar yanılmışım . Bu adam tam bir Belasco!1 Bu büyük bir zafer. Ne zevkli ne güzel bir seçim! Hem haddini bilip sayfaları da kesip azaltmamış. Daha ne istenir ki?"1 David Belasco (1853 - 1931) Amerikalı Oyun yazarı. Devasa bir kütüphaneye sahipti.
