Dictionary Of The Khazars Quotes

When we read, it is not ours to absorb all that is written. Our thoughts are jealous and they constantly blank out the thoughts of others, for there is not room enough in us for two scents at one time.

I dream in a language I do not understand when I'm awake.

Один из верных путей в истинное будущее – это идти в том направлении, в котором растет твой страх

Един от сигурните пътища в истинското бъдеще (защото има и лъжливи видове бъдеще) е да вървиш в посоката, в която расте твоят страх.

He took blue and red and placed them next to each other, painting the eyes of an angel. And I saw the angel's eyes turn violet

And so, when I began to read the proffered pages, I at one moment lost the train of thought in the text and drowned it in my own feelings. In these seconds of absence and self-oblivion, centuries passed with every read but uncomprehended and unabsorbed line, and when, after a few moments, I came to and re-established contact with the text, I knew that the reader who returns from the open seas of his feelings is no longer the same reader who embarked on that sea only a short while ago.

A bird foraging for food in the swamps and marshes sinks rapidly if it doesn't move. It has to keep pulling its feet out of the mire to move on, regardless of whether it has caught something or not. And the same applies to us and to our love. We have to move on, we can't stay where we are, because we'll sink.

When we read, it is not ours to absorb all that is written. Our thoughts are jealous and they constantly black out the thoughts of others, for there is not room enough in us for two scents at on time.

It is not I who mix the colors but your own vision,' he answered. 'I only place them next to one another on the wall in their natural state; it is the observer who mixes the colors in his own eye, like porridge. Therein lies the secret. The better the porridge, the better the painting, but you cannot make good porridge from bad buckwheat. Therefore, faith in seeing, listening, and reading is more important than faith in painting, singing, or writing.' He took blue and red and placed them next to each other, painting the eyes of an angel. And I saw the angel's eyes turn violet. 'I work with something like a dictionary of colors,' Nikon added, 'and from it the observer composes sentences and books, in other words, images. You could do the same with writing. Why shouldn't someone create a dictionary of words that make up one book and let the reader himself assemble the words into a whole?

Each of us promenades his thought, like a monkey on a leash. When you read, you always have to such monkeys: your own and one belonging to someone else. Or, even worse, a monkey and a hyena. Now, consider what you will feed them. For a hyena does not eat the same things as a monkey...

Knowledge is a perishable commodity; it can turn sour in a second. Like the future.

- Поступки в человеческой жизни похожи на еду, а мысли и чувства - на приправы. Плохо придется тому, кто посолит черешню или уксусом польет пирожное...

And he gave me a few of the Xeroxed sheets of paper lying on the table in front of him. As he passed them to me, his thumb brushed mine and I trembled from the touch. I had the sensation that our past and our future were in our fingers and that they had touched. And so, when I began to read the proffered pages, I at one moment lost the train of thought in the text and drowned it in my own feelings. In these seconds of absence and self-oblivion, centuries passed with every read but uncomprehended and unabsorbed line, and when, after a few moments, I came to and re-established contact with the text, I knew that the reader who returns from the open seas of his feelings is no longer the same reader who embarked on that sea only a short while ago. I gained and learned more by not reading than by reading those pages...

He was creating the first letters of the Slavonic alphabet. He started with rounded letters, but the Slavonic language was so wild that the ink could not hold it, and so he made a second alphabet of barred letters and caged the unruly language in them like a bird.

Time comes not from the ground but from the underground. Time belongs to Satan; he carries it like a skein in the pocket of the devil, unravels it when his mysterious economies do dictate, and it should be wrested away from him. For, if one can ask and receive eternity from God, then we can take the opposite of eternity --time-- only from Satan...

Один из верных путей в истинное будущее (а есть ведь и ложное будущее) - это идти в том направлении, в котором растет твой страх.

Знание - товар скоропортящийся, того и гляди заплесневеет. Так же как и будущее.

Masculine and feminine stories cannot have the same ending.

Reading is really like trying to hit one tossed stone with another; the consonants are the stones, the vowels their velocity.

Here lies the reader who will never open this book. He is here forever dead.

Я привыкла к своим мыслям, как к своим платьям. В талии они всегда одной и той же ширины, и вижу я их повсюду, даже на перекрестках. И что хуже всего - из-за них уже и перекрестков не видно.

It is not I who mix the colors but your own vision,' he answered. 'I only place them next to one another on the wall in their natural state; it is the observer who mixes the colors in his own eye, like porridge. Therein lies the secret. The better the porridge, the better the painting, but you cannot make good porridge from bad buckwheat. Therefore, faith in seeing, listening, and reading is more important than faith in painting, singing, or writing.

Always remember - you work because you don't know how to live. If you knew how to live, you would not work, and science wouldn't exist for you. But everybody taught us only how to work, not how to live. I don't know how to live either.

It has been said ever since that the Brankoviches of Erdély count in Tzintzar, lie in Walachian, are silent in Greek, sing hymns in Russian, are cleverest in Turkish and speak their mother tongue --Serbian-- only when they intend to kill.

Sometimes bygone springs, full of warmth and scents, blossom yet again inside us. And we carry them through the winter, protecting them with our chests. Then, one day, those bygone springs begin protecting our chests from the frost when we find ourselves on the other side of the window, where winter is not just a picture. It is now the ninth winter that I have had such a spring inside me, and it is still keeping me warm. Imagine, in this winter, two such springs touching like the scents of two meadows. That is what we need instead of overcoats. . .

He grew up and later lived with an insatiable wanderlust. He always carried a rug with him and used to say, "My home is where my rug is"; he spent the better part of his life among tribes so wild that, after shaking hands, he always had to count his fingers. Only illness provided some sort of island of peace in his life. As soon as he fell ill, he would forget every other language save his own.

The truth is transparent and goes unnoticed, whereas lies are opaque and let in neither light nor gaze. There is a third version, where the two mix, and this is the most customary. With one eye we see through the truth, and that gaze is lost forever in infinity; with the other eye we do not see even an inch through the lies, and that gaze can penetrate no further, but remains on earth and ours; and so we push through life sideways. Hence, the truth cannot be understood on its own, like a lie, but only by comparing it with lies, by comparing the white space with the letters of our Book, because the white spaces in The Khazar Dictionary mark the translucent places of the divine truth and name (Adam Cadmon), and the black letters between the white spaces are where our eyes cannot penetrate beyond the surface.

It was no easy task to tame the barbarians' language. One quick three-week-old autumn, the brothers were sitting in their cell, trying to write out the letters that men would later call Cyrillic. They were not getting anywhere. Fromm the cell you could clearly see half of October, and in it the silence was one hour's walk long and two hours' walk wide. Then Methodius called his brother's attention to four jugs standing on the window of their cell, but outside, on the other side of the bars. "If the doors were locked, how could I get to one of those jugs?" he asked. Constantine broke one of the jugs, then drew the fragments piece by piece through the bars and into the cell, where he reassembled the jug, bonding it with saliva and clay from the floor beneath his feet. This they now did with the Slavonic language: they broke it in pieces, drew it into their mouths through the bars of Cyril's letters, and bonded the fragments with their saliva and the Greek clay beneath the soles of their feet.

Ведь все наши проблемы на этом свете проистекают из того, что мы вынуждены тратить наши дни такими, какие они есть, из-за того, что не можем перескочить через самые худшие. В этом-то все дело. С моим яйцом в кармане вы, заметив, что наступающий день слишком мрачен, разобьете его и избежите всех неприятностей. В результате, правда, ваша жизнь станет на один день короче, но зато вы сможете сделать из этого плохого дня прекрасную яичницу.

Защото в истината може да се намери само онова, което е сложено в нея. Но това съвсем не е малко — в истината има място за всичко.

Пусть твои глаза остановятся на мне в тот раз, когда я буду хорошо готова к своей роли, потому что никто не бывает мудрым и красивым все семь дней в неделю.

Хазары считают, что старость - это результат действия взглядов как своих на собственное тело, так и чужих, потому что взгляды вспарывают и перепахивают тела самыми различными и убийственными орудиями, которые создаются страстями, ненавистью, намерениями и желаниями.

Птица, която ловува по мочурищата и блатата, бързо потъва, ако не се движи. Час по час трябва да си вади крака от тинята и да го мести, независимо от това хванала ли е нещо, или не.

I could see the bird soaring away. And then I realised there was no more shutting of your eyes to the truth,no salvation in being blindfolded, no dream and reality,no being awake or asleep. Everything is one and the same continuing eternal day and world, coiling around you like a snake. This is when I saw vast, remote happiness as being small but close.

Methodius thought of how Homer and the holy prophet had been contemporaries, how Homer's poetic state had been larger than the state of Alexander of Macedonia. . . . He also thought of how Homer had at some point written into his work the name of Sidon. . . . in Sidon sat the prophet Elijah, who was to become an inhabitant of another poetic state, one as vast, eternal, and powerful as Homer's own — an inhabitant of the Holy Scriptures.

Walachia, where, Satan claimed, every man is born a poet, lives like a thief, and dies a vampire.

Enemies are always the same, or become so with time, for they could not be enemies otherwise. It is those who actually differ among themselves who pose the greatest danger. They long to meet one another, because their differences do not bother them. And they are the worst. We and our enemies will combine forces to fight those who allow us to differ from them and do not let this difference disturb their sleep; we will destroy them in one fell swoop from three sides...

According to one of these terrible stories, the source of Daubmannus' erstwhile youthful cheerfulness and spirit, despite his affliction, was the fact that, hunched and bent as he was, he could reach down and suck at himself, and so he learned that the male seed tastes like a woman's milk. This was how he kept renewing himself.

And then I realized there was no more shutting of your eyes to the truth, no salvation in being blindfolded, no dream and reality, no being awake or asleep. Everything is one and the same continuing eternal day and world, coiling around you like a snake. That is when I saw vast, remote happiness as being small but close; when I perceived the great cause as empty, and the small as my love...

Have nothing to do with things that involve the three worlds of Islam, Christianity, and Judaism here on earth, so that we may have nothing to do with their underworlds. For those who hate one another are not the problem in this world. They always resemble one another. Enemies are always the same, or become so with time, for they could not be enemies otherwise. It is those who actually differ among themselves who pose the greatest danger. They long to meet one another, because their differences do not bother them. And they are the worst. We and our enemies will combine forces to fight those who allow us to differ from them and do not let this difference disturb their sleep; we will destroy them in one fell swoop from three sides...

The death of the child is always a model for the death of the parent. A mother gives birth in order to give life to her child; a child dies in order to shape the death of its father.

The hierarchy of death is, in fact, the only thing that makes possible a system of contracts between the various levels of reality in an otherwise vast space where deaths endlessly repeat themselves like echoes within echoes...

Ponekad davna proleća, puna toplote i mirisa, procvetaju još jednom u nama. I mi ih pronosimo kroz sadašnju zimu štiteći ih prsima. A onda, jednoga dana, ta davna proleća počnu štititi naša prsa od mraza kad se nađemo s one strane prozora na kojoj mraz nije samo slika. (...) Zamisli sada, u ovoj zimi, dva takva proleća što se dodiruju kao dve livade mirisama. Eto šta nam je potrebno umesto ogrtača.

Bog o tebi nema pojma; on niti vidi tvoje namere, niti tvoje misli, ni tvoja dela. To što ti je anđeo došao u san i buncao, znači samo da nije imao gde da prenoći, a napolju je verovatno padala kiša. A što je kratko ostao, to je po svoj prilici jer mu je u tvome snu suviše smrdelo. Operi svoje snove drugi put...

— Наравно, ако је свећа у стању да умре... Замисли сада - наставио је - да постоји неко ко зна, док ми ово знамо о мољцу, то исто о нама. Неко коме је познато на који начин, чиме и зашто је омeђен овај наш простор, ово што ми сматрамо небом и узимамо као да је неомеђено – неко ко није у стању да нам се приближи и да нам да до знања да постојимо сем на један једини начин - убијајући нас. Неко чијим се рухом хранимо, неко ко нашу смрт носи у својој руци као језик, као средство општења с нама. Убијајући нас, тај непознати нас обавештава о себи. И ми кроз наше смрти, које су можда само поука некој скитници која седи крај убице, ми кажем, кроз наше смрти као кроз одшкpинута врата сагледавамо у последњем тренутку нека нова поља и неке друге мeђе. Тај шести и највиши ступањ смртнога страха (на који нема сећања) држи заједно у игри и повезује све нас непознате учеснике. Хијерархија смрти у ствари је оно једино што омогућује систем додира између различитих равни стварности у једном иначе несагледивом пространству у којем се смрти као одјеци у одјецима понављају бесконачно...

- Šta osvetljava naše snove, koji se dešavaju u potpunoj pomračini, iza sklopljenih očiju? Sećanje na svetlost, koje više nema, ili svetlost budućnosti, koju kao predujam uzimamo od sutrašnjeg dana, mada još nije svanuo? - U oba slučaja to je nepostojeća svetlost. Prema tome, svejedno nam je koji je odgovor tačan I pitanje treba uzeti kao nepostojeće.

Postupci u čovečijem životu su poput jela, a misli I osećanja kao začini. Neće dobro proći onaj ko posoli trešnje ili sirćetom zalije kolač...

Zapisao je da u slučajevima kada se dve osobe uzajamno sanjaju, pa san jedne gradi javu druge, uvek malo sna pretekne i s jedne i s druge strane. To su “deca sna”. San, doduše, traje kraće nego java sanjanog, ali zato je san uvek neuporedivo dublji od bilo kakve jave I stoga vazda preostaje malo šuta, “višak građe” koji ne može da stane bez ostatka u javu sanjanog, nego se preliva I lepu za javu nekog trećeg lica, koje zbog toga trpi znatne tegobe i promene. Taj treći je po pravilu u složenijem položaju od prve dvojice, njegova sloboda volje je dva puta više ograničavana podsvešću nego što je kog one dvojice slučaj, jer se viškovi energiej I građe, koji pretiču u snovima jednog I drugog, naizmenično prelivaju u duhovni život trećeg I on tako psotaje neka vrsta dvopolca, koji se priklanja čas jednom čas drugom sanjaču.

Rekao je da svaki sutrašnji dan vredi koliko neupotrebljena potkovica, a jučerašnji koliko otpala kamilja ploča...

Die schönsten und glücklichsten Stunden in meinem Leben waren mit so einer schrecklichen Anstrengung verbunden, daß ich mich noch immer an sie erinnere. Ich erinnere mich an sie, das heißt auch an dich, nicht wie an ein Glück, sondern wie an eine freudige Anstrengung die fast unerträglich war. Warum war es so erschöpfend schwer, glücklich zu sein? Das aber ist alles längst vorbei wie der Wind in den Weiden. Ich bin ruhig geworden, seit ich nicht mehr glücklich bin.

All things followed one code when on the rise and another when on the fall, that departures and returns did not come under the same law, and that the same agreements did not apply before and after a victory.

God is pleased by your intentions, but not by your deeds

Sometimes bygone springs, full of warmth and scent, blossom yet again inside us. And we carry them through the winter, protecting them with our chests. Then, one day, those bygone springs begin protecting our chests from the frost when we find ourselves on the other side of the window, where winter is not just a picture.