Onlar asla ölmemek için ne yaygara koparmışlar, ne dövüşmüşler ne de kendilerini övmüşlerdi. Ölümü soğukkanlılıkla kabul etmişlerdi. Güvensizlik duygusundan uzak olarak yavaş yavaş hazırlanmış ve iyi bir zamanda kısrağı, tayı, ev dokuması mantoyu, çizmeleri kimlerin alması gerektiğine karar vermişlerdi. Sonra sanki bir kulübeden diğer bir kulübeye taşınıyormuş gibi sessizce öldüler. Hiçbirini kanser korkutamadı. Böylece de hiç kimse kansere yakalanmadı.
Đối với tôi văn chương không phải là một cách đem đến cho người đọc sự thoát ly hay sự quên, trái lại văn chương là một thứ khí giới thanh cao và đắc lực mà chúng ta có, để vừa tố cáo và thay đổi một cái thế giới giả dối và tàn ác, làm cho lòng người được thêm trong sạch và phong phú hơn".
What do I miss, as a human being, if I have never heard of the Second Law of Thermodynamics? The answer is: Nothing. And what do I miss by not knowing Shakespeare? Unless I get my understanding from another source, I simply miss my life. Shall we tell our children that one thing is as good as another-- here a bit of knowledge of physics, and there a bit of knowledge of literature? If we do so, the sins of the fathers will be visited upon the children unto the third and fourth generation, because that normally is the time it takes from the birth of an idea to its full maturity when it fills the minds of a new generation and makes them think by it.Science cannot produce ideas by which we could live.
I was beginning to understand something I couldn't articulate. It was a jazzy feeling in my chest, a fluttering, a kind of buzzing in my brain. Warmth. Life. The circulation of blood. Sanguinity. I don't know. I understood the enormous risk of telling the truth, how the telling could result in every level of hell reigning down on you, your skin scorched to the bone and then bone to ash and then nothing but a lingering odour of shame and decomposition, but now I was also beginning to understand the new and alien feeling of taking the risk and having the person on the other end of the telling, the listener, say: Bad shit at home? You guys are running away? Yeah, I said. I understand, said, Noehmi.
In the language of the day it is customary to describe a certain sort of book as “escapist” literature. As I understand it, the adjective implies, a little condescendingly, that the life therein depicted cannot be identified with the real life which the critic knows so well in W.C.1: and may even have the disastrous effect on the reader of taking him happily for a few hours out of his own real life in N.W.8. Why this should be a matter for regret I do not know; nor why realism in a novel is so much admired when realism in a picture is condemned as mere photography; nor, I might add, why drink and fornication should seem to bring the realist closer to real life than, say, golf and gardening.
Çapkınlık yaparken ayakbağı olmasın diye karısına öyle tırsınç hikayeler anlatmıştı ki, kadıncağız "Dışarı çıkarsam boğulurum" korkusuyla uzun yıllar sokağa ayağını göstermemişti. Şehrin sokaklarının sularla kaplı olduğunu yağmur yağdığında denizin yükselip taşacağını, küçük bir yıldırım hareketinden şehrin tamamıyla yıkılacağını sanan İmine yaşamını cam kenarına satmıştı.
साहित्यले मानिसलाई निखार्छ । शुद्द बनाउँछ । यो एउटा आत्म शुद्दीकरणको प्रक्रिया हो । मान्छेलाई जीवन जिउन सिकाउने कला हो ।
Я помню чудное мгновенье:Передо мной явилась ты,Как мимолётное виденье,Как гений чистой красоты...I still recall the wondrous momentWhen you appeared before my eyes, Just like a fleeting apparition,Just like pure beauty's distillation...
Gerçek su yüzüne çıkıyor ve hiçbir şey onu durduramayacak. Olay ancak bugün başlıyor, çünkü konumlar ancak bugün açık olarak ortaya çıktı: bir yanda, ışığın parlamasını istemeyen suçlular; öbür yanda ışığın parlaması için canlarını verecek doğrucular. Gerçek toprağın altına kapatıldığı zaman, orada öyle bir toplanır öyle bir patlama gücü kazanır ki, patladığı gün her şeyi kendisiyle birlikte havaya uçurur.
Two adolescent girls on a hot summer night--hardly the material of great literature, which tends to endow all male experience (that of those twin brothers who found themselves adrift so many years ago in the dark northern woods for instance) with universal radiance. Faithless sons, wars and typhoons, fields of blood, greed and knives: our literature's full of such stories. And yet suppose for an instant that it wasn't the complacent father but his bored daughter who was the Prime Mover; suppose that what came first wasn't an appetite for drama but the urge to awaken it. Mightn't we then permit a single summer in the lives of two bored girls to represent an essential stage in the history of the universe?
In a sense, Joyce was Beckett's Don Quixote, and Beckett was his Sancho Panza. Joyce aspired to the One; Beckett encapsulated the fragmented many. But as each author accomplished his task, it was in the service of the other. Ultimately, Beckett's landscapes would resound with articulate silence, and his empty spaces would collect within themselves the richness of multiple shadows--a physicist would say the negative particles--of all that exists in absence, as in the white patches of an Abstract Expressionist painting. Becket would evoke, on his canvasses of vast innuendo and through the interstices of conscious and unconscious thought, the richness that Joyce had made explicit in words and intricate structure.
Dixon was alive again. Consciousness was upon him before he could get out of the way; not for him the slow, gracious wandering from the halls of sleep, but a summary, forcible ejection. He lay sprawled, too wicked to move, spewed up like a broken spider-crab on the tarry shingle of morning. The light did him harm, but not as much as looking at things did; he resolved, having done it once, never to move his eyeballs again. A dusty thudding in his head made the scene before him beat like a pulse. His mouth had been used as a latrine by some small creature of the night, and then as its mausoleum. During the night, too, he'd somehow been on a cross-country run and then been expertly beaten up by secret police. He felt bad.
Matthew Arnold made the horrible prophecy that literature would increasingly replace religion. It has, and it's taken on all the features of bitter persecution, great intolerance, and traffic in relics. All literature becomes a sacred text. A sacred text is always exposed to the most monstrous exegesis; hence we have the spectacle of some wretched scholar taking a pure divertissement written in the seventeenth century and getting the most profound ambiguities and social criticisms out of it, which of course aren't there at all....It's the discovery of the mare's nest by the pursuit of the red herring. [Laughter] This is going to go on long after my lifetime; you may be able to see the end of it, I shan't.
¿Qué importa el nombre del autor en la portada? Trasladémonos con el pensamiento a tres mil años de aquí. Quién sabe qué libros se habrán salvado de nuestra época, y de quién sabe qué autores se recordará aún el nombre. Habrá libros que seguirán siendo famosos, pero que serán considerados obras anónimas, como para nosotros la epopeya de Gilgamesh; habrá autores cuyo nombre será siempre famoso, pero de los que no quedará ninguna obra, como sucedió con Sócrates; o quizá todos los libros supervivientes se atribuirán a un único autor misterioso, como Homero.
Whether or not the fame of Gilgamesh of Uruk had reached the Aegean – and the idea is attractive – there can be no doubt that it was as great as that of any other hero. In time his name became so much a household word that jokes and forgeries were fathered onto it, as in a popular fraud that survives on eighth-century B.C. tablets which perhaps themselves copy an older text. This is a letter supposed to be written by Gilgamesh to some other king, with commands that he should send improbable quantities of livestock and metals, along with gold and precious stones for an amulet for Enkidu, which would weigh no less that thirty pounds. The joke must have been well received, for it survives in four copies, all from Sultantepe.
