Ah Notebook Quotes

Ah, how good it is to be among people who are reading.

There are a large number of people in the room, but one is unaware of them. They are in the books. At times they move among the pages, like sleepers turning over between two dreams. Ah, how good it is to be among people who are reading.

Ah." He set down his backpack and pulled out their notebook. "You're working on your final project?" "Indirectly," Cath said. "What does that mean?" "Have you ever heard sculptors say that they don't actually sculpt an object; they sculpt away everything that isn't the object?" "No." He sat down. "Well, I'm writing everything that isn't my final project, so that when I actually sit down to write it, that's all that will be left in my mind.

Ah, what stars there are in the Ukraine. I’ve been living in Moscow almost seven years, but I still feel drawn to my homeland. My heart aches, I get a terrible urge to board a train and be off. To see the cliffs covered in

It's ridiculous. Here I sit in my little room, I, Brigge, who have got to be twenty-eight years old and about whom no one knows. I sit here and am nothing. And yet this nothing begins to think and thinks, up five flights of stairs, these thoughts on a gray Paris afternoon: Is it possible, this nothing thinks, that one has not yet seen, recognized, and said anything real and important? Is it possible that one has had thousands of years of time to look, reflect, and write down, and that one has let the millennia pass away like a school recess in which one eats one's sandwich and an apple? Yes, it is possible. ...Is it possible that in spite of inventions and progress, in spite of culture, religion, and worldly wisdom, that one has remained on the surface of life? Is it possible that one has even covered this surface, which would at least have been something, with an incredibly dull slipcover, so that it looks like living-room furniture during the summer vacation? Yes, it is possible. Is it possible that the whole history of the world has been misunderstood? Is it possible that the past is false because one has always spoken of its masses, as if one was telling about a coming together of many people, instead of telling about the one person they were standing around, because he was alien and died? Yes, it is possible. Is it possible that one believed one has to make up for everything that happened before one was born? Is it possible one would have to remind every single person that he arose from all earlier people so that he would know it, and not let himself be talked out of it by the others, who see it differently? Yes, it is possible. Is it possible that all these people know very precisely a past that never was? Is it possible that everything real is nothing to them; that their life takes its course, connected to nothing, like a clock in an empty room? Yes, it is possible. Is it possible that one knows nothing about girls, who are nevertheless alive? Is it possible that one says "the women", "the children", "the boys", and doesn't suspect (in spite of all one's education doesn't suspect) that for the longest time these words have no longer had a plural, but only innumerable singulars? Yes, it is possible. Is it possible that there are people who say "God" and think it is something they have in common? Just look at two schoolboys: one buys himself a knife, and the same day his neighbor buys one just like it. And after a week they show each other their knives and it turns out that they bear only the remotest resemblance to each other-so differently have they developed in different hands (Well, the mother of one of them says, if you boys always have to wear everything out right away). Ah, so: is it possible to believe that one could have a God without using him? Yes, it is possible. But, if all this is possible, has even an appearance of possibility-then for heaven's sake something has to happen. The first person who comes along, the one who has had this disquieting thought, must begin to accomplish some of what has been missed; even if he is just anyone, not the most suitable person: there is simply no one else there. This young, irrelevant foreigner, Brigge, will have to sit himself down five flights up and write, day and night, he will just have to write, and that will be that.

Don't fall into the habit of bringing work home, Rick. It indicates a lack of planning, and you would eventually find yourself stuck indoors every night. Teaching is like having a bank account. You can happily draw on it while it is well supplied with new funds; otherwise you're in difficulties. Every teacher should have a fund of ready information on which to draw; he should keep that fund supplied regularly by new experiences, new thoughts and discoveries, by reading and moving around among people from whom he can acquire such things." "Not much chance of social movement for me, I'm afraid." "Nonsense, Rick, you're settled in a job now, so there's no need to worry about that; but you must get out and meet more people. I'm sure you'll find lots of nice people about who are not foolishly concerned with prejudice." "That's all right, Dad; I'm quite happy to stay at home with you and Mom." "Nice to hear you say that, but we're old and getting a bit stuffy. You need the company of younger people like yourself. It's even time he had a girl, don't you think, Jess?" Mom smiled across at me. "Ah, leave him alone, Bob, there's plenty of time for that." We went on to chat about other things, but I never forgot what Dad Belmont had said, and never again did I take notebooks home for marking. I would check the work in progress by moving about the class, helping here, correcting there; and I very soon discovered that in this way errors were pin-pointed while they were still fresh in the child's mind.

Sometimes, in the rue de Seine for instance, I go past little shops. Vendors of second-hand goods, or small-time antiquarian booksellers, or dealers in engravings, all of them with overcrowded windows. No one ever goes inside them, they don’t look as if they do any business. But look inside and you can see them sitting there and reading, completely at ease, with no thought to the morrow, or of making a success of things; they have a dog that sits cheerfully by their feet, or a cat that makes the silence even greater as it brushes along the rows of books as if it were wiping the names off the spines. Ah, if only that would do: sometimes I could wish I could buy myself a crowded shop-window like that and sit down behind it with a dog for twenty years.

A Season in Hell - 1854-1891 A while back, if I remember right, my life was one long party where all hearts were open wide, where all wines kept flowing. One night, I sat Beauty down on my lap.—And I found her galling.—And I roughed her up. I armed myself against justice. I ran away. O witches, O misery, O hatred, my treasure's been turned over to you! I managed to make every trace of human hope vanish from my mind. I pounced on every joy like a ferocious animal eager to strangle it. I called for executioners so that, while dying, I could bite the butts of their rifles. I called for plagues to choke me with sand, with blood. Bad luck was my god. I stretched out in the muck. I dried myself in the air of crime. And I played tricks on insanity. And Spring brought me the frightening laugh of the idiot. So, just recently, when I found myself on the brink of the final squawk! it dawned on me to look again for the key to that ancient party where I might find my appetite once more. Charity is that key.—This inspiration proves I was dreaming! "You'll always be a hyena etc. . . ," yells the devil, who'd crowned me with such pretty poppies. "Deserve death with all your appetites, your selfishness, and all the capital sins!" Ah! I've been through too much:-But, sweet Satan, I beg of you, a less blazing eye! and while waiting for the new little cowardly gestures yet to come, since you like an absence of descriptive or didactic skills in a writer, let me rip out these few ghastly pages from my notebook of the damned.

Would the pair of you like to turn your backs so you exclude us more effectively?” Jode asks. “We’re just adding to the list.” I hold up my journal. “Daryn.” Gideon shakes his head, pretending to be disappointed. “It’s our list.” “A list?” Jode leans back, resting his head against his bag. “What’s this list about?” Rather than explain it, I just lean over and give it to him. Gideon puts his hand over his heart and winces. “I hate sharing, Martin.” I lean up, whispering in his ear. “Some things are only for you.” He gives me a long unblinking look that makes my face burn and my body feel light and hot. “This is an outrage,” Jode says dryly. “I’m in here once and Gideon is here … two, three, four times?” “Three,” I say. “The last one doesn’t really count.” “Oh, it counts,” Gideon says. “How many times am I in it?” Marcus asks. “Are you guys making this a competition?” “Of course.” “Yeah.” “Definitely. And I’m dominating.” “For real,” Marcus says. “How many times am I on there?” “Once, like me. For your winning smile.” Jode closes the notebook and tosses it to Marcus. “But don’t let it go to your head. Gideon’s arse has a spot on the list as well.” Gideon looks at me and winks. “Like I said, dominating.” “Dare, you got a pen?” Marcus asks. This catches me by surprise for a moment. “Yes.” I toss it to him, smiling. This is perfect. Whatever he adds, it’s already perfect. As Marcus writes, Jode leans back and gazes up at the trees. “You’re thinking it’ll be five for you after this. Aren’t you, Gideon?” “You know me well, Ellis.” Marcus finishes writing. He sets the pen in the fold and hands the journal to Gideon. I lean in and read. Marcus’s handwriting is elegant cursive—almost astonishingly elegant. And what he wrote is, as expected, perfection. Even better is that Gideon reads it aloud. “‘Twenty-eight. The family you make.’” He looks at Marcus. “Damn right, bro. This is the best one here.” He looks at me. “Tied with fourteen.” “Ah, yes,” Jode says. “Gideon’s Super Lips.” Marcus shakes his head at me. “Why?” “It was a mistake. I wrote it before the list went public. What’s your addition, Jode? It can be anything. Anything that has significance to you.” “Full English breakfast,” he says, without missing a beat. “Bacon, eggs, sausages, baked beans, grilled tomato, mushrooms, toast, marmalade. With tea, of course. One of life’s undeniable pleasures.” My mouth instantly waters. “Well, it’s no trail mix, but all right.” I add “English Breakfast” to the list.

Bibliothèque Nationale. Sunt mulți oameni în sală, dar nu-i simt. Ei sunt în cărți. Uneori se mișcă printre file, asemenea oamenilor care dorm și se răsucesc între două vise. Ah, ce bine este totuși să fii printre oamenii care citesc. De ce nu sunt mereu așa? Poți să te duci la unul și să-l atingi ușor: nu simte nimic. Și dacă îl atingi puțin pe vecin când te ridici și te scuzi, el face un semn din cap spre partea în care îți aude vocea, întoarce fața spre tine, dar nu te vede, iar părul lui arată ca părul unui om adormit. Ce bine e așa! Și eu stau și am un poet. Ce mai soartă! Acum poate că sunt în sală trei sute de oameni care citesc, dar este imposibil ca fiecare în parte să aibă un poet. (Dumnezeu știe ce au!) Nu există trei sute de poeți, dar ia uite ce soartă, eu, poate cel mai nevoiaș dintre acești cititori, un străin, eu am un poet. Deși sunt sărac. Deși costumul meu, pe care îl port zilnic, începe să se tocească în unele locuri, deși pantofii mei cam lasă de dorit. Ce-i drept, gulerul este curat, ca și lenjeria, și aș putea, așa cum sunt, să intru în orice cofetărie, chiar și pe marile bulevarde, să întind liniștit mâna spre farfuria cu prăjituri și să iau una. Nu s-ar mira nimeni de asta și n-aș fi certat și dat afară pentru că, oricum, este o mână din lumea bună, o mână spălată de patru-cinci ori pe zi. Da, sub unghii nu este nimic, degetul mijlociu nu e pătat de cerneală și în special încheieturile sunt impecabile. Este un fapt cunoscut că oamenii săraci nu se spală până acolo. De la curățenia lor se pot trage unele concluzii. Se și trag. Se trag în magazine. Există totuși câțiva oameni, pe Boulevard Saint-Michel de pildă și pe rue Racine, care nu se lasă derutați și cărora puțin le pasă de încheieturile mele. Ei mă privesc și știu. Ei știu că de fapt fac parte dintre ei, că joc doar un pic de comedie. Doar suntem în carnaval. Și nu vor să-și strice distracția; rânjesc un pic și-mi fac cu ochiul. N-a văzut nimeni. De altfel, mă tratează ca pe un domn. Trebuie numai să fie cineva în apropiere și atunci devin chiar servili. Se comportă ca și cum aș avea o haină de blană pe mine și în urma mea ar veni o mașină. Uneori le dau doi gologani, tremurând că ar putea să-i refuze, dar ei îi primesc. Și totul ar fi în regulă dacă n-ar rânji un pic și n-ar face cu ochiul. Cine sunt acești oameni? Ce vor de la mine? Mă așteaptă? De unde mă cunosc? Este adevărat, barba mea este cam neglijentă și de foarte, foarte departe, amintește de bărbile lor bolnave, bătrâne, spălăcite, care m-au impresionat întotdeauna, dar n-am oare dreptul să-mi neglijez barba? Mulți oameni ocupați fac asta și nimănui nu-i trece prin cap să-i socotească, din pricina asta, printre dezmoșteniți. Pentru mine este limpede: dezmoșteniții nu sunt numai cerșetori; nu, de fapt nu sunt cerșetori, trebuie să se facă distincție. Sunt deșeurile, cojile de oameni scuipate de soartă. Uzi încă de saliva sorții, se lipesc de un zid, de un felinar, de un stâlp cu afișe sau se scurg încet în josul străzii, lăsând în urma lor o dâră neagră, murdară. Ce dracu’ voia de la mine bătrâna aceea care, cu un sertar de noptieră în care se rostogoleau câțiva nasturi și câteva ace, ieșise din cine știe ce cocioabă? De ce se ținea întruna după mine și mă măsura cu privirea? Parcă încerca să mă recunoască cu ochii ei urduroși, care arătau ca și cum un bolnav ar fi scuipat flegmă verde pe pleoapele ei sângerii. Și cum a ajuns femeia aia cenușie, măruntă, să stea un sfert de oră lângă mine în fața unei vitrine, arătându-mi un creion vechi, lung, care ieșea nesfârșit de încet dintre mâinile ei murdare, împreunate. Mă prefăceam că privesc obiectele expuse în vitrină și că nu observ nimic. Ea însă știa că am văzut-o, știa că stau și mă întreb ce face de fapt. Înțelegeam foarte bine că nu putea fi vorba de creion: simțeam că era un semn, un semn pentru inițiați, un semn pe care-l cunosc dezmoșteniții.

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Pagan? Ah,that is a joyous word for the aridity of Godless modern man!

Ah, Mystery. You gotta love it. You actually do have to love it, at least enough to stay in the game of life. Appreciate the wonder. From gazing into Mystery, I’ve learned there are many reasons why “nothing happens,” and such reasons always have to do with our own evolving spiritual needs and our consciousness . . . or our lack thereof.

So,” she asks, “did we decide on a movie?” She settles up against me, and my arm goes naturally around her. “I was thinking Braveheart.” “Ugh. What is it with that movie? Why are all men addicted to it?” “Ah, the same reason women are obsessed with the freaking Notebook. That is what you were going to suggest, right?” She smiles slyly, and I know I guessed right. “The Notebook is romantic.” “It’s fucking gay.” She hits me in the face with the “perfect” pillow. “It’s sweet.” “It’s nauseating. I have friends who are flaming homosexuals—and that movie is too gay for them.

No, Sonia, that’s not it... ...that’s not it! Better … imagine—yes, it’s certainly better—imagine that I am vain, envious, malicious, base, vindictive and … well, perhaps with a tendency to insanity. (Let’s have it all out at once! They’ve talked of madness already, I noticed.) I told you just now I could not keep myself at the university. But do you know that perhaps I might have done? My mother would have sent me what I needed for the fees and I could have earned enough for clothes, boots and food, no doubt. Lessons had turned up at half a rouble. Razumihin works! But I turned sulky and wouldn’t. (Yes, sulkiness, that’s the right word for it!) I sat in my room like a spider. You’ve been in my den, you’ve seen it.… And do you know, Sonia, that low ceilings and tiny rooms cramp the soul and the mind? Ah, how I hated that garret! And yet I wouldn’t go out of it! I wouldn’t on purpose! I didn’t go out for days together, and I wouldn’t work, I wouldn’t even eat, I just lay there doing nothing. If Nastasya brought me anything, I ate it, if she didn’t, I went all day without; I wouldn’t ask, on purpose, from sulkiness! At night I had no light, I lay in the dark and I wouldn’t earn money for candles. I ought to have studied, but I sold my books; and the dust lies an inch thick on the notebooks on my table. I preferred lying still and thinking. And I kept thinking … And I had dreams all the time, strange dreams of all sorts, no need to describe! Only then I began to fancy that.… No, that’s not it! Again I am telling you wrong! You see I kept asking myself then: why am I so stupid, that if others are stupid—and I know they are—yet I won’t be wiser? Then I saw, Sonia, that if one waits for every one to get wiser it will take too long.… Afterwards I understood that that would never come to pass, that men won’t change and that nobody can alter it and that it’s not worth wasting effort over it. Yes, that’s so. That’s the law of their nature, Sonia, … that’s so!… And I know now, Sonia, that whoever is strong in mind and spirit will have power over them. Anyone who is greatly daring is right in their eyes. He who despises most things will be a law-giver among them and he who dares most of all will be most in the right! So it has been till now and so it will always be. A man must be blind not to see it!... ...I divined then, Sonia... ...that power is only vouchsafed to the man who dares to stoop and pick it up. There is only one thing, one thing needful: one has only to dare! Then for the first time in my life an idea took shape in my mind which no one had ever thought of before me, no one! I saw clear as daylight how strange it is that not a single person living in this mad world has had the daring to go straight for it all and send it flying to the devil! I … I wanted to have the daring … and I killed her. I only wanted to have the daring, Sonia! That was the whole cause of it!

I wish we could put Nathan and Ellena and Travis on our walk.” Ashley sighed. “It just doesn’t seem complete without them.” “They’re on our walk.” Taking Ashley’s notebook, Roo calmly pointed to the neatly lettered, neatly organized tour script. “See? Right here. Magnolia Gallery. Opera house fire.” “That’s not what I mean. Each of them really, really loved somebody very much. That’s what I want people to remember.” Ashley put a hand over her heart. “The loves that never die.” “The loves that made people die.” Parker downed another swig of cough medicine, capped the bottle, then slid it into the back pocket of his jeans. “Sorry, Ash, but that’s not the way of the world. If you tell their real stories, people will only remember all the dumb mistakes they made. Like…oh, you know…torture and murder and arson and treason and--” “Ah, yes,” Roo acknowledged coolly. “Parker Wilmington, the last of the true romantics.” Retrieving her notebook, Ashley hugged it to her chest. Her sigh was more wistful this time. “I know you’re right. I mean, we can’t ever give away their real secrets. Not on the Walk of the Spirits…not to anybody…not ever. I mean, Nathan and Ellena and Travis lived and sacrificed and died, protecting those secrets about themselves. If we told their secrets, it would be like betraying them all over again.” “Or we could call the tabloids and paparazzi,” Parker deadpanned. “They pay big money for secrets and betrayals.” “Parker Wilmington, if I told even half your secrets and betrayals, I’d be a very rich woman!” Even Parker looked amused as the group broke into raucous applause. Looking entirely pleased with herself, Ashley curtsied, then motioned them all toward the Brickway.