Cees Nooteboom Quotes

Conversations consist for the most part of things one does not say.

Memory is like a dog that lies down where it pleases.

Language is something you inherit, it's never just you doing the talking, which helps when you're pretending.

We are our secrets, and, if all goes well, we will take them with us to where no-one can touch them.

I looked out of the window and saw him sitting in the early rays of the sun, a dark silhouette in the sand, motionless as a rock, and knew at once that I had substituted one memory for another and that this one would leave me with as little peace as the other one had. I would exist in someone else's mind, without knowing who I was in there.

He thought that, unlike most people, he had simply refused to let himself be brainwashed by newspapers, television, eschatologies, and philosophies into believing that "in spite of everything" this was an acceptable world simply because it existed. It would never become acceptable. Beloved maybe, acceptable never.

...a poem is only finished when the last reader has read it or listened to it.

Herinnering is als een hond die gaat liggen waar hij wil.

Man is a sad mammal that combs its hair.

Ik zal afscheid nemen van mijn vrienden en weggaan zonder weg te gaan vanwege de herinneringen die ik meeneem en achterlaat en als ik terugkom zal alles anders zijn en toch hetzelfde en voorgoed veranderd.

Kummer hat etwas in den Linien deines Gesichts zu suchen, nicht in deiner Erinnerung.

Surely one zoo in the world should have the courage to draw the ultimate conclusion about our ancestry? A cage with Homo Sapiens in all its varying forms, perhaps then we would understand ourselves better. The question of course is whether the other animals would approve of it.

La foto è il feticcio che ti dovrebbe riportare indietro il tempo, ma il guadagno coincide con la perdita: in cambio del ricordo di un te stesso precedente ricevi la consapevolezza di ciò che è definitivamente passato, dell'istante che non tornerà mai più mentre ciò che volevi era proprio fermarlo.

Is that part of being a god, manifesting yourselves exclusively in forms of fiction, and making yourselves scarce when it matters?

Die Welt ist ein einziger unaufhörlicher Querverweis.

He read a lot, but what he read, and not just that but everything he saw, films and paintings, he translated into feeling. And this feeling, which could not immediately be expressed in words, not yet and maybe never, that formless mass of sentiments, impressions, observations — that was his way of thinking. You could circle around it with words, but there always remained far more that was not expressed than was. And later, too, a certain resentment would take possession of him, toward those people who demanded precise answers, or pretended to be able to give them. It was, on the contrary, the very mystery of everything that was so attractive. You should not want to impose too much order on it. If you did, something would be lost irrevocably. That mysteries can become more mysterious if you think about them with precision and method, he did not yet know. He felt at home in his sentimental chaos. To chart it you had to be an adult, but then you were at once labelled, finished, and in effect already a little dead.

When a memory fails to appear, it seems as though the time when it was created did not really exist, and maybe that is true. Time itself is nothing; only the experience of it is something. When that dies, it assumes the form of a denial, the symbol of mortality, what you have already lost before you lose everything. When his friend had said something similar to his father, his response had been, "If you had to retain everything, you’d explode. There’s simply not enough space for it all. Forgetting is like medicine; you have to take it at the right time.

Je wordt natuurlijk wel gelooid. De wereld is daar heel goed in. Iedereen begint met talent, iedereen heeft een kaarsje en dat brandt. De meeste mensen laten het uitgaan of het wordt door anderen wel uitgeblazen. Dat begint al vroeg. Een kind tekent een huis met een veel te grote zon. De verhoudingen kloppen niet, zegt de volwassene. Dan ben je al bezig aan de afbraak. Of een kind vertelt een verhaal dat niet klopt. Dat heb je gelogen, zegt een volwassene. Nee, het kind heeft het verzonnen. Je moet tegen elke wind in, in iedere storm, dat kaarsje zien aan te houden.

So-called real life has only once interfered with me, and it had been a far cry from what the words, lines, books had prepared me for. Fate had to do with blind seers, oracles, choruses announcing death, not with panting next to the refrigerator, fumbling with condoms, waiting in a Honda parked round the corner and surreptitious encounters in a Lisbon hotel. Only the written word exists, everything one must do oneself is without form, subject to contingency without rhyme or reason. It takes too long. And if it ends badly the metre isn't right, and there's no way to cross things out.

Wij hebben het nu over jou. Vergeet niet, ik ben notaris geweest. Ik maak die dingen altijd af. Wat wil jij worden?' 'Ik weet het niet.' Hij begreep dat dat geen goed antwoord was, maar het was het enige, zelfs als iemand graag altijd alles afmaakte. Hij had geen flauw idee. Eigenlijk wist hij zeker dat hij nooit iets wou, maar ook nooit iets zóú worden. De wereld was al boordevol met mensen die iets waren, en de meesten waren er duidelijk niet gelukkig mee.

Guardare, ascoltare, leggere, il lavoro non finisce mai.

Wij zijn begonnen, wij zullen eindigen, en daartussen bestaan we, het heelal net zo goed als een geranium.

De wereld is één nooit ophoudende referentie.

Ik bleef heel stil liggen, al was het maar om aan de gedachte te wennen dat mijn ogen misschien mijn ogen niet waren, wat natuurlijk een omslachtige manier is om te zeggen dat ik doodstil lag omdat ik doodsbang was dat ik iemand anders was.

All right, she thought I was a funny little geezer, but my charred Phaethon had impressed her, I was very obviously available, and she was out for revenge. What makes Greek tragedies great is that this brand of psychological nonsense doesn't enter into it at all. I had wanted to tell her that too, but unfortunately conversations consist for the most part of things one does not say. We are descendents, we do not have mythical lives, but psychological ones. And we know everything, we are always our own chorus.

Oni oduzimaju dah jedno drugome" bilo bi najpribližnije, ali pošto njega već znamo, a nju ne očekujemo ovde, nećemo sa time otići daleko. Oni se dobro znaju, to je jasno. Ono što niko ne može da vidi jesu krila koja on crta iza nje, krila anđela koga nikada neće zboraviti.

When Sartre says man has been thrown into the world, he is alone, there is no God, we are responsible for what we are, what we do, I say yes!" The affirmative echoed around the woods. The dog pricked up his ears. This man has no one to talk to, thought Inni. "But when he then asks me to be responsible for the world as well, for others, I say no! No. Why should I be? 'When man chooses himself, he chooses all men.' Why? I have not asked for anything. I have nothing to do with the vermin I see around me. I live out my time because I have to, that is all.

Zou je me vragen wat ik het beste lied uit de Lage Landen vind, dan zou ik niet twijfelen, dat was "Laat me, Vivre" van Ramses Shaffy en Liesbeth List, onmiddellijk gevolgd door Tim van Wim de Craene. En als ik Liesbeth zo bezig zie, in een opname bij Paul de Leeuw, dan kan het toch niet anders dat zij, ooit de vrouw van de schrijver Cees Nooteboom, Ramses heeft bemind in de meest onmogelijke van alle liefdes. Ze heeft hem altijd bewonderd en uit die bewondering ontstond een platonische liefde die ze tot zijn dood (slokdarmkanker) levend heeft gehouden.

La città è un libro, chi va in giro a passeggio il suo lettore. Può iniziare da una pagina qual siasi, può andare avanti o indietro nel tempo e nello spazio. Forse il libro ha un inizio, ma è ben lontano dall'avere una fine. Le sue parole sono frontoni, scavi, nomi, date, statue.

Zeitungen haben...zugleich etwas Solides und sogar bei der schlimmsten Nachricht etwas Beruhigendes: Die Welt existiert. Du bist gerade aufgewacht, zurückgekommen aus dem dunklen Reich des Schlafes, mach dir keine Sorgen, hier bin ich, schon frisch gebacken, ich rieche noch nach Druckerschwärze.

Ancora una volta voglio dunque compiere questo viaggio, e anche ora so che non riuscirò ad andarci direttamente, che viaggio per me non può mai significare altro che digressione, l'eterno labirinto che il Viaggiatore si costruisce lasciandosi sedurre ogni volta da una deviazione e dalla deviazione della deviazione, dal mistero del nome sconosciuto sulla guida, dal profilo del castello in lontananza cui non porta quasi nessuna strada, da quello che potrebbe esserci da vedere dietro la prossima collina o montagna.

Omnivore, omnifume, omniboit, omnivoit. Ne znaš odabrati, to je uvijek nedostatak izvrsnosti. Zato si ti svaštar. To je netko kome je sve lijepo. Život je za takve prekratak. Condition humaine to ne dopušta. Doista lijepim možeš smatrati samo ono u što se stvarno razumiješ. Onaj koji ne odabire, zaglavit će. Nemar, nedostatak pažnje, bez pravog razumijevanja ičega, prljava strana dilentatizma. Druga polovina dvadesetog stoljeća. Više šansi za sve. Više ljudi zna manje o više stvari. Širenje znanja na što široj razini. Tko se želi klizati, propada kroz led.

Y, sin embargo, cuando cae la noche y el espectáculo ha terminado, él y yo nos quedamos de nuevo solos con el silencio, solos con una infinita escasez de palabras; nunca imaginé que éstas pudieran ser tan parcas. Pero a mí todo me parece bien. ¿O acaso me engaño a mí misma? ¿Existe la pornografía sin porno? Mejor dicho, ¿existe la pornografía únicamente como concepto, sin representación gráfica alguna? Pura pornografía del espíritu, un estado en que la mentira transforma la naturaleza de cada acto -caricia, beso, orgasmo- en algo obsceno y perverso. Reflexiono sobre todas estas cosas, aquí, tendida en el suelo mientras espero que él pronuncie alguna de sus escasas palabras, a que vuelva a tocarme y yo a olvidarme de mis pensamientos.

Clocks served two purposes, in my opinion. The first was to tell people the time, and the second to impress upon me that time is an enigma, an intractable measureless phenomenon into which, out of sheer helplessness, we have introduced a semblance of order.

...I am sitting on the wall of the castle, looking out over the city, the river, the dish of sea beyond. Oleander, frangipani, laurel, great elm trees. A girl is sitting nearby, writing. The word "goodbye" is drifting in the air around me and I can't seem to catch hold of it. This entire city is a goodbye. The fringe of Europe, the last shore of the first world, it is there that the corroded continent sinks into the sea, dissolves into the infinite mist which the ocean resembles today. This city does not belong to the present, it is earlier here because it is later. The banal has not yet arrived. Lisbon is reluctant. That must be the word, this city puts off the moment of parting, this is where Europe says goodbye to itself. Lethargic songs, gentle decay, great beauty. Memory, postponement of metamorphosis. Not one of those things would find its way into Dr Strabo's Travel Guide. I send the fools to the fado taverns, for their dose of processed saudade. Slauerhoff and Pessoa I keep to myself...

C'è qualcosa d'indescrivibilmente triste negli scrittori soli nel loro studio. Presto o tardi viene un momento nella loro vita in cui cominciano a dubitare di quel che fanno. Sarebbe forse strano, del resto, se non fosse così. Quanto più a lungo si vive, tanto più la realtà si fa incalzante, e al tempo stesso meno interessante, perchè ce n'è già troppa. Davvero c'è bisogno di aggiungervi ancora qualcosa? Al di sopra dell'esistente bisogna accatastare l'immaginario, solo perchè qualcuno, quand'era giovane e aveva ancora poca esperienza di quel che chiamiamo realtà, s'è messo a fantasticare per conto proprio un po' di pseudorealtà e, di conseguenza, è stato chiamato da tutti uno scrittore?

Alguien que duerme está al mismo tiempo cerca y lejos, de ti y de sí mismo, impotente y, sin embargo, poderoso precisamente por su ausencia.

En el amor de ella se había mezclado ira, una ira que se correspondía con la suya. Morder, engullir, irrumpir en el otro de una vez por todas, devorar, aprovecharse, ese completo barullo desesperado de seres que quieren convertirse en el otro, que quieren ser una sola cosa y no pueden, siempre obligados a separarse el uno del otro.

Als wij geen namen zouden hebben, zou alles veel duidelijker zijn. Gewoon wat vluchtige materie met een beetje bewustzijn, verschijningen die komen en tamelijk snel weer verdwijnen. Door die namen denken we dat we heel wat zijn, we denken misschien zelfs dat ze ons beschermen, maar wie weet nog de namen van alle miljarden die verdwenen zijn?

Have you ever seen a woman canter over the hills in the twilight? Scandal sheets are no match for atavism.

There is no more pressure on my rudder, he once remarked. Plain sailing, no drag on other people either. A bit of dancing now and then, that's fine. I still see those girls, but I pretend they're paintings. Or advertisements. But that was only later.

Same hour, same set-up: woman plus tortoise, tortoise plus hibiscus, man plus gin and tonic. "To arm myself against the evening." She had found it perplexing, a man who feared the evening because he feared the night.

... the psychobabble spelled out in magazines, the imaginary divans we would never wish to lie on ourselves, all they do is hold up mirrors in which not a single truth is revealed, because the truth is always trounced by the lie. Was Heinz a liar by saying nothing? Did he drink because he never stopped telling lies?

Il dolore, pensò, dovrebbe avere un peso, un suo particolare peso specifico, dovrebbe essere visibile come un minerale che non si trova in nessun altro luogo, una valuta non convertibile in cui calcolare i cadaveri, il sangue, le ferite, le malattie, le umiliazioni, e che rimanesse sul campo di battaglia, nelle prigioni, sui patiboli e negli ospedali, un monumento che avesse sempre e dovunque lo stesso significato.

Zelf heb ik Frisch één keer ontmoet, in Edinburgh. Wat weet ik daar nog van? Niet veel. Met Mulisch en Reve was ik de Nederlandse delegatie bij een groot schrijverscongres. 1962. Vier jaar voor hij aan dat dagboek zou beginnen. Hij was niet groot, en had een bril met een zwaar montuur en zoiets als dubbele glazen, waardoor het leek of de ogen vergroot werden. Ik was negenentwintig, en het enige dat er van mij vertaald was kon hij niet gelezen hebben. Maar je bent aanwezig, dus misschien ben je wel wat. Van Harry was toen ook nog niet veel vertaald, maar hij had zijn allure mee, en straalde een onmetelijke zekerheid uit. We stonden met Frisch aan de bar, wat we besproken hebben is vervlogen. Frisch had een behoorlijke slok op, amuseerde zich, en liet ons praten. Harry sneed door een menigte met die neus als een schegbeeld, misschien heeft Frisch dat wel opgeschreven. Ontmoetingen met schrijvers die je niet kunt lezen hebben altijd iets spannends, omdat er niets te bewijzen valt. Henry Miller liep er rond, Angus Wilson, Stephen Spender, Normal Mailer, beroemde Schotten waar wij nog nooit van gehoord hadden, je hoort erbij maar je bent niemand en god weet wat je geschreven hebt in die rare taal van je, en iedereen is vriendelijk. Ik voelde me zoals een van de onnozele kinderen in het voorgeborchte, nog niet gezondigd, wachtend op de hemel die misschien wel een hel is. Eén beeld is me altijd bijgebleven. In een zaal waar al die beroemdheden rondliepen zat een adellijke Schotse familie in kilts met de kleuren en ruiten van hun clan. Ze hadden schoenen met zilveren gespen, en een dolk met een zilveren gevest in een wollen kniekous gestoken. Smokingjasjes op die rokken, een zwartglanzende vlinderdas, ridderordes. Geen ogenblik keken ze op naar de eventuele beroemdheden, al ze die al kenden. Ze zaten daar als atavistische beelden in een feodale oase, werden van achteren bediend door mensen die ze niet aankeken, en waren zichzelf volstrekt genoeg. Het is een halve eeuw geleden en ik weet het nog.

Αν είχε κάποια φιλοδοξία δεν θα δίσταζε να χαρακτηρίσει τον εαυτό του αποτυχημένο, αλλά φιλοδοξίες δεν είχε. Τη ζωή τη θεωρούσε σαν μια αλλόκοτη λέσχη της οποίας είχε γίνει μέλος κατά τύχη και από την οποία θα μπορούσαν να τον αποβάλλουν χωρίς να τον ενημερώσουν για τους λόγους. Έτσι κι αλλιώς είχε ήδη αποφασίσει να παραιτηθεί από μόνος του αν οι συγκεντρώσεις παραγίνονταν βαρετές.

È sempre stato così, in tutti i miei viaggi: sono sempre un perdente, perché mi attacco troppo alle cose, o alle persone, e cosi il viaggio non è più un viaggio, ma un ripetuto addio Ho passato il tempo a dire addio e a ricordare, e a raccogliere indirizzi nelle mie agendine come piccole lapidi.

E la strada è inquietudine, sempre e comunque, perché non c'è dubbio che ho capito male la vita e l'ho coltivata ancor peggio, ma tanto, mio caro, il risultato è lo stesso.

I could have forced myself to adapt," said Taads. "In this world the individual self is of such importance that it is allowed to become absorbed in itself and to grub around in its trivial personal history for years on end with the help of a psychiatrist, so as to be able to cope. But I don't think that is important enough. And then suicide is no longer a disgrace. If I had done it earlier, I would have done it in hatred, but that is no longer the case." "Hatred?" "I used to hate the world. People, smells, dogs, feet, telephones, newspapers, voices — everything filled me with the greatest disgust. I have always been afraid I might murder somebody. Suicide is when you have been all around the world with your fear and your aggression and you end up by yourself again." "It remains aggression." "Not necessarily." "What are you waiting for then?" "For the right moment. The time has not yet come." He said it amiably, as if he were talking to a child.

Can you imagine how incredibly quiet it was everywhere, when the gentlemen from this world" — he made a vague circular gesture towards the battalions of meditating Asians behind him — "were hatching and proclaiming their ideas? Anyone who now tries to follow these ideas in order to find the road back to what they were talking about, is faced with obstacles that would have driven an entire tribe of oriental ascetics into the ravine. The world from which they felt it so necessary to retreat would have seemed idyllic to us. We live in a vision of hell, and we have actually got used to it." He looked at his statues and continued, "We have become different people. We still look the same, but we have nothing in common with them any more. We are differently programmed. Anyone who now wants to become like them must acquire a big dose of madness first; otherwise he will no longer be able to bear the life of our world. We are not designed for their kind of life.

What the East has given me is the thought that this I of mine is not so unique. Nothing much will be lost when it disappears. It isn't important. I am a hindrance to the world, and the world is a hindrance to me. There will only be harmony if I get rid of both at once. What dies in that case is a bundle of circumstances that bore my name, plus the limited and moreover constantly changing knowledge that these circumstances had about themselves. It doesn't matter to me. I have learnt not to be afraid. That in itself is quite a lot, and I am not capable of anything more. In a Zen monastery I would probably get the stick mercilessly, because it's all no good, but it satisfies me. What I have achieved is negative. I am no longer afraid, and I can quietly dissolve myself the way you dissolve a bottle of poison in an ocean. The ocean won't feel any ill effect, and the poison has been freed from a great burden; it does not have to be poison any more." "And is that the only solution?" "What I lack is love.

A Klee painting named Angelus Novus shows an angel looking as though he is about to move away from something he is fixedly contemplating. His eyes are staring, his mouth is open, his wings are

<< Los sonidos van y vienen, pero el silencio permanece.>> En cierta ocasión, ta vez cuarenta años atrás, en un hotel mugriento y anónimo al borde del Sahara en la frontera de Mauritania, me depertó el silencio al que se refería el anciano. Pero no fue el silencio, sino la angustia que había adoptado la forma de silencio la que me despertó. No sé cómo explicarlo, yo mismo me transformé, como un animal, en agustia. No sentía miedo de nada, porque me encontraba al límite. Recuerdo el suelo de adobe, el ruido de algo o alguien moviéndose y cómo salí afuera al encuentro del cielo oscuro y la resplandeciente quietud de todas las estrellas. Aquella noche ha quedado escrita en mí con una palabra que ya no soy capaz de leer. A partir de aquel momento opté por una vida que hoy llamo la mía, la existencia del que escribe y describe en el mundo de las apariencias, pero ¿cuántas palabras hay que escribir para ser capaz de leer la única palabra?

Negdje oko ponoći, ovdje usred germanske zime na rubu Alpa, opet gledam,Oriona, slijepog lovca, planinskog svemirca, Posejdonova sina, najljepšeg muškarca svih vremena, zavedenog od nezasitne Eje, zore, koju je mučila nepopustljiva požuda kao kazna zbog toga što ju je Afrodita zatekla u krevetu s Aresom, bogom rata. On je najsjajnije, a ujedno i najtužnije od svih zviježđa, možda ga zato i volim. Na Hiosu se zaljubio u Meropu, Dionizovu unuku, kćer kralja Enopiona. Smio ju je oženiti pod uvjetom da potjera sve divlje zvijeri s otoka. To je priča o podloj izdaji jer nakon što je protjerao sve životinje Enopion mu je iskopao oči da ga ne bi imao za zeta. Oslijepljeni Orion odvesla se na Lemnos i tamo u Hefestovoj kovačnici nalazi na jednog naučnika koji ga na svojim leđima nosi preko pola svijeta do ruba oceana gdje se u njega zaljubljuje nezasitna Eja, a njezin brat Sunce vraća mu svjetlost u oči. Sad se želi osvetiti Enopionu, ali za svoje potrage nailazi na Artemidu koja je, kao i on, potpuno opsjednuta lovom. Zajedno odlaze u lov, ali tada se upliće Apolon i šalje na njega čudovišnog škorpiona. Oklop je te strašne životinje neuništiv. Orion bježi u more, u more svoga oca, ali što može smrtnik kad se bogovi urote protiv njega? Apolon slaže Artemidi da je plivač u moru netko drugi, muškarac koji je zaveo jednu njezinu svećenicu. Božica nacilja glavu udaljenog plivača i ubija ga, ali otplivavši do tijela vidi da je riječ o Orionu i moli Asklepija, Apolonova sina, da ga opet oživi, a kad ovaj to htjedne uraditi, Zeus ga sprečava ubivši ga munjom. Artemida potom stavlja među zvijezde Orionov uvijek prepoznatljiv lik, koga još uvijek svake noći proganja škorpion, i ja ga takvoga sada gledam na hladnome, bistrome nebeskom svodu, muškarca koji je bio prelijep da bi živio, žrtvu žena, zauvijek u lovu sa Siriusom, svojim psom, treptavom zvijezdom pod nogama. Znam kako se zovu sve njegove zvijezde, ona na ramenu je Betelgeuze, bezbroj puta sjajnija od Sunca, znam kolika je međusobna udaljenost između zvijezda na njegovu maču i na njegovu pojasu, i da će se jednom u nepojmljivim vjekovima djelovanjem svemirskih zakona toliko udaljiti da će potpuno nestati, izgubljeni lovac rastrgnut vremenom, ali time njegov čar nimalo ne slabi, lik i priča su jači, još uvijek. On je moj zaštitnik, naprepoznatljvije zviježđe, uvijek sam sretan kad ga vidim, tog smrtnika koga su božice ljubile, a bogovi mrzili.

Ik heb het ongelukkige karakter van iemand die altijd achter de volgende heuvel wil kijken, en die nog steeds niet geleerd heeft dat daarachter weer een andere heuvel ligt.

In quel continuo peregrinare, in tutti quei treni e autobus, nei cammini lungo i sentieri di montagna, attraverso paesaggi magnifici e sqallidi quartieri cittadini, nei vuoti di attese a volte lunghe, c'è un elemento di meditazione scandito dal ritmo del viaggio, chiamiamola una sequenza di pensieri vaghi e serpeggianti nutrita dal movimento stesso, unito alla vista di tutti quegli mperscrutabili e solenni volti di pietra, oro e ottone che si librano sopra ogni cosa e all'insondabile pace dei giardini silenziosi. Più a lungo dura e più ci si sente armati contro quella che sembra l'assurdità del mondo.

De numerus fixus rekent van nul tot tien terug.

Het trage, tropische voortslenteren, de manier van lopen van de flaneur, is de beste manier om een land te leren kennen. Ik lees, ik schrijf en ik voel hoe het land langzaam in mij doorsijpelt - haast is fataal voor de reiziger.

La mayoría de los muertos callan. Ya no dicen nada. Literalmente ya lo han dicho todo. Pero no sucede así con los poetas. Los poetas siguen hablando

Kannst du dir vorstellen, wie diese Frau gegangen war? Nein, das kannst du nicht. Sehr dumme Schauspielerinnen in einem historischem Stück, die versuchen es. <…> Kleider können nicht aussterben, die kann man bewahren oder nachmachen, das ist kein Problem. Aber die Bewegung in diesen Kleidern, die ist ausgestorben. Stoff fällt anders, wenn die Bewegung eine andere ist. Diese Frau hätte nie einen Bikini tragen können. Dafür hätte sie nicht den Gang, der war noch nicht erfunden.

Unübersetzbar. Du weißt, Niederländisch ist eine Geheimsprache, die dazu bestimmt ist andere auszuschließen.

Du glaubst wohl hoffentlich nicht an die Unsterblichkeit der Kunst, oder? Über so was könnte ich mich immer totlachen. Vor allem Schriftsteller verstehen sich darauf, Meister der künftigen Unsterblichkeit. Spuren hinterlassen, nennen sie das, während das, was sie machen, noch am schnellsten verschimmelt. Aber sogar die wenigen Male, wo das nicht so ist, worum handelt es sich da? Dreitausend Jahre? Texte, die wir auf unsere Weise lesen, obwohl sie womöglich völlig anders gedacht waren...

En doordat ik met haar ben meegegaan, heb ik gezien hoe haar gezicht veranderde.

Ik had wel duizend levens en ik nam er maar één.

«Lei, a quanto ho capito, è professore di teologia», continuò Taads, «e questa è dunque una conversazione puerile. Lei è pieno fino al collo di dogmatica, di scolastica, conosce le prove dell'esistenza di Dio e le loro confutazioni. Avete costruito tutto un sistema sul crudele simbolo della croce, la vostra religione vive ancora di quella seduta sadomasochistica che, probabilmente, ha davvero avuto luogo, un giorno. L'organizzazione militaristica dell'Impero romano ha dato modo di diffondersi a questo singolare fanatismo, con il suo strano miscuglio di idolatria pagana e di buone intenzioni; l'espansionismo dell'Occidente e il colonialismo hanno assicurato la sua ulteriore propagazione e la Chiesa, che lei chiama madre, ha più frequentemente agito da assassina, spesso da boia, sempre da tiranna.» «E lei ha una risposta migliore?» «Io non ho nessuna risposta.»

Winnen is niets, mijn jongen. Winnen laat geen sporen na. Winnen is bevrediging. Verliezen is leven.

Quello che faccio io non si può quasi più chiamare viaggiare, non si scopre più niente, si digita, controlla, smentisce e conferma, immagini e idee vengono confrontate con la "realtà", ciò che in ultima istanza vado a fare è vedere se il Giappone esiste davvero, come se uno spettatore al cinema potesse entrare nello schermo e sedersi a tavola con i protagonisti.

In my very left eye, I heard the wind in his walk.

In one ritual, the ritual has been asked nor questioned, in all blue waters the white Fountain shines.

Is een labyrint met een gids nog wel een labyrint? Wat zou mijn paniek geweest zijn als de oude gids er niet bij geweest was? Het meest essentiële aan een labyrint is de verwarrende, bedrieglijke keuze: ga ik rechts, ga ik links, ga ik door, ga ik terug? Daar hoort geen gids bij. Ik zie mijzelf zonder die man, ik begin vol goede moed maar kan bij de eerste tweesprong al falen, na vijf minuten weet ik niet meer wie ik ben, na een uur ben ik uitgeput, vind mijn sporen terug die ik dan ook weer verlies, na twee uur schreeuw ik tegen mijn eigen echo's, na een tijd weet ik niet meer of het in het daarbuiten, waar ik vroeger bij hoorde, nacht of dag is en wacht ik alleen nog maar tot die andere vergelijking, die met de dood, tot het grote, zwarte monster dat hier woont en dat mij opwacht, zich zal laten zien. Labyrint, nu weet ik dat dat iets is wat gesloten is, iets waarin de tijd tegen zijn eigen richting in kan lopen. Alweer een woord dat niet meer zomaar gebruikt kan worden.