Lars Quotes

Re'lar Kvothe," he said seriously. "I am trying to wake your sleeping mind to the subtle language the world is whispering. I am trying to seduce you into understanding. I am trying to teach you." He leaned forward until his face was almost touching mine. "Quit grabbing at my tits.

Perhaps the only difference between me and other people is that I’ve always demanded more from the sunset. More spectacular colors when the sun hit the horizon. That’s perhaps my only sin.

Well!” the woman cried, offended. “See if I ever come to visit Genovia!” “No one wants you there,” Lars informed her

Do you want your blood to stay where it is sochar-lar?" Tavi lifted both eyebrows at the unfamiliar word, and glanced at Varg. "Monkey," Varg supplied, in Aleran. "And male-child." "He called me monkey boy?" Tavi asked.

She’s only seventeen years old,” Llarimar said. “I can’t imagine being married to the God King at her age.” “I can’t imagine you being married to the God King at any age, Scoot,” Lightsong said. Then he pointedly cringed. “Actually, yes I can imagine it, and the dress looks painfully inelegant on you. Make a note to have my imagination flogged for its insolence in showing me that par tic u lar sight.” “I’ll put it in line right behind your sense of decorum, Your Grace,” Llarimar said dryly. “Don’t be silly,” Lightsong said, taking a sip of wine. “I haven’t had one of those in years.

Mortui vivis docent - the dead teach the living.

The only reason why world war 2 happened was because Chuck Norris decided to take a nap.

It wasn’t me,” Lars supplied, from the front seat. “I didn’t tell.” “Of course it wasn’t Lars,” Michael said, having overheard him. “Tell Lars no one is blaming him.” Seriously, if my life were one of those romance novels with a love triangle, Lars and Michael would be the sexy paranormal alpha males, but the two of them would be in love with each other and just ignore me.

When Lars first held her, his heart melted over her like butter on warm bread, and he would never get it back. When mother and baby were asleep in the hospital room, he went out to the parking lot, sat in his Dodge Omni, and cried like a man who had never wanted anything in his life until now.

For Heidegger, boredom is a privileged fundamental mood because it leads us directly into the very problem complex of being and time.

Nature is Satan's church.

I rose to standing, like Lars upon the barbican, the dark city spread at my feet. Lights twinkled in tavern windows, bobbed at the Wolfstoot Bridge construction. Once I had been suspended over this vast space, hanging and helpless, at a dragon’s mercy. Once I had feared that telling the truth would be like falling, that love would be like hitting the ground, but here I was, my feet firmly planted, standing on my own. We were all monsters and bastards, and we were all beautiful.

Books don't need to be published," Lars Högström said. "The main thing is that they should be written.

Uneori, omul e în situaţia lui Cortes, de a arde toate corăbiile care l-ar putea duce înapoi, ca să poată merge înainte.

Ya siz, Nasıl bilirdiniz çocukluğunuzu ey cemaat? Nasıldı Öldürdüğünüz birinin cenaze namazını kılmak?

We do not disappear without a trace. We leave a wake that never quite disappears, a gash in time that we so laboriously leave behind us.

Did you all not know that agony and sufferings are the path that is paved to Paradise? - John Lars Zwerenz

You have to be nicer to me," I said. Again he laughed. "What? I'm the King of nice. What are you talking about?" "You have to be nicer to me or... or..." "Or what?" he said. Still Lars, still charming and jokey, but with a thread of fear. It snaked in and pierced my numbness and almost broke my resolve. Almost, but not quite. "Or I have ti break up with you." I whispered What was there more to say? Nothing. So I hung up.

Ben sizin ruhunuza çiçek aşısı yapayım da çiçekler açsın ruhunuz.

Ama yazgısını yaldızlı çokomel kağıtları gibi, Tırnaklarıyla düzeltemiyor insan.

Self-identity is inextricably bound up with the identity of the surroundings.

she makes me wash, they make me comb all to thunder; she won't let me sleep in the woodshed... the widder [widow] eats by a bell; she goes to bed by a bell; she wakes up by a bell-everything's so awful reg'lar a body can't stand it

Traditions have been replaced by lifestyles.

A utopia cannot, by definition, include boredom, but the ‘utopia’ we are living in is boring.

Death is the dawn of eternal life in paradise. - John Lars Zwerenz

LARS Porsena of Clusium By the Nine Gods he swore That the great house of Tarquin Should suffer wrong no more. By the Nine Gods he swore it, And named a trysting day, And bade his messengers ride forth, East and west and south and north, To summon his array.

Every night,' said Mr. Peggotty, 'as reg'lar as the night comes, the candle must be stood in its old pane of glass, that if ever she should see it, it may seem to say, "Come back, my child, come back!

One mood can be replaced by another, but it is impossible to leave attunement altogether. However, profound boredom brings us as close to a state of un-attunement as we can come.

Păcatul tău este că vrei să trăieşti moartea aici, pe pământ, continuă Irina ca şi cum nu l-ar fi auzit. Dar pe pământ omul e dator să trăiască numai viaţa. Moartea lui adevărată o va trăi în Cer. Dacă încearcă să trăiască moartea pe pământ, păcătuieşte şi se mistuieşte în deznădejde. Şi atunci, nici nu trăieşte cu adevărat, nici nu moare. E ca un fel de strigoi.

Упътване за употреба когато падаш, падни със стил: не повличай други със себе си, падни преди да стане късно, падни за бога, не там, където е удобно да се пада, падни там, където си изправен и падни ниско изправи се на съвсем друго място

Re-creations of the Addams Family house, the abandoned shack in the Evil Dead trilogy, Tyler Durden’s flophouse in Fight Club, and the Lars Homestead on Tattooine.

Lars watches Pretty Little Liars.

Doing as he was told, Lars called out, “I’m looking at a woman in a suspension unit. I think she’s dying.” He ripped the helmet off again and glared at Morley. “Why do I have to watch somebody dying?” “The person you saw was Claire Hyndman. Her father is Alan Hyndman. He’s a big wheel on Arden.” “So?” “The RTTC suggests the real Claire Hyndman died and Samantha brain-stripped her and created a substitute.

In order to live a meaningful life, humans need answers, i.e., a certain understanding of basic existential questions. These ‘answers’ do not have to be made completely explicit, as a lack of words does not necessarily indicate a lack of understanding, but one has to able to place oneself in the world and build a relatively stable identity. The founding of such an identity is only possible if one can tell a relatively coherent story about who one has been and who one intends to be.

Güzin Ablası kitaplar olan bir kızdım, İçim sıkılmasa o kadar Tek bir satır bile okumazdım.

Yapıştırsam da parçalarını hayatımın Su sızdırıyordu çatlaklarından.

Animals can be understimulated, but hardly bored.

Traditions brings continuity to one’s existence, but this sort of continuity is precisely what has been increasingly lost throughout modernity.

I never heerd...nor read of nor see in picters, any angel in tights and gaiters...but...he's a reg'lar thoroughbred angel for all that.

Where am I? What the hell difference is it? There’s plenty o’ fresh air and the moon fur a glim. Don’t be so damn pertic’lar!

... and it occured to me then and forever afterwards, that films, theatre books and poems were just a fraud. It's only music that doesn't deceive, it doesn't pretend to be anything else except what it is. Music.

Despite having murdered his wife and eldest son, he was venerated as a saint—quite an impressive feat for a man who was both deified as a pagan god and baptized by a heretic.

Çok şey öğrendim geçen üç yıl boyunca Balkona yorgun çamaşırlar asmayı Ki uçlarından çile damlardı

Anthropocentrism gave rise to boredom, and when anthropomorphism was replaced by technocentrism, boredom became even more profound.

Oricat l-ar iubi cineva pe altcineva, cat de uşor il poate inşela, deoarece nimeni nu poate cunoaşte, fără să i se spună, gandurile altuia.

När hösten kommer blir landskapet så stilla att det nästan dånar av stillhet. Och sådana höstdagar kan man höra en och annan ensam fågel skrika i stillheten som om den ropade av sorg över något förlorat.

«Porque o passado não está morto. O passado nem sequer passou» - William Faulkner. Referia-me a que cada pequena coisa que acontece a um ser humano o acompanha até ao presente. Todas as suas vivências influenciam cada uma das suas opções e, tratando-se de experiências traumaticas, o passado passa a ocupar todo o espaço do presente.

True values entail suffering. That’s the way we think. All in all, we tend to view melancholia as more true. We prefer music and art to contain a touch of melancholia. So melancholia in itself is a value. Unhappy and unrequited love is more romantic than happy love. For we don’t think that’s completely real, do we?…Longing is true. It may be that there’s no truth at all to long for, but the longing itself is true. Just like pain is true. We feel it inside. It’s part of our reality.

When you lose your timing it is simply because you aren’t present.

Perhaps I finally understood that being was only possible when you can accept that it doesn’t entail being anything in particular.

The difference between imaginary and real object creates a continuos desire

I may be a country girl who's never been offplanet, but even I'm aware that when a Jedi walks up to you and says, "Here, have a baby," it's not going to end well.

I think my teacher was wrong: making cheese wasn't what I was born to do. I was born to make people feel good when everything around them seemed just awful.

Do you want me to kill your father, Barnum?

E, no dia em que ele fugiu, em inúmeros lares, na hora pobre do jantar, rostos se iluminaram ao saber da notícia. E, apesar de que lá fora era o terror, qualquer daqueles lares era um lar que se abriria para Pedro Bala, fugitivo da polícia. Porque a revolução é uma pátria e uma família.

The usual heresy consists in denying the existence of a god who has created us. It is a much more interesting heresy to imagine that possibly a god has created us and then to say that there isn't the least reason for us to be impressed by that fact. And certainly not to be thankful for it.

Und alles hatte den leichten Schimmelduft, den Bücher im mittleren Texas haben. Zuviel Feuchtigkeit. Zuviel Wärme. Ein Land, das niemals imstande sein wird, Bücher längere Zeit aufzubewahren. Bücher halten sich hier nicht. Sie schimmeln. (Die Sache mit dem Hund)

I believe...that to be very poor and very beautiful is most probably a moral failure more than an artistic success. Shakespeare would have done well in any generation because he would have refused to die in a corner; he would have taken the false gods and made them over; he would have taken the current formulae and forced them into something lesser men thought them incapable of. Alive today he would undoubtedly have written and directed motion pictures, plays, and God knows what. Instead of saying, "This medium is not good," he would have used it and made it good. If some people called some his work cheap (which some of it was), he wouldn't have cared a rap, because he would know that without some vulgarity there is no complete man. He would have hated refinement, as such, because it is always a withdrawal, and he was too tough to shrink from anything.

Смехът копнее за компания.

This may be difficult for you to understand, but this kidnapping is the best thing that has ever happened to me.

Животът не е само големи шапки и бавни валсове.Животът е умението да чакаш онези, които никога няма да се върнат.

It is possible to bathe in nonsense ... to be refreshed by it.

Колко самота може да понесе един човек? Не може и да помоли за помощ при понасянето ѝ, тогава вече няма да е самота.

Bir gecekonduda oturuyor kalbim oysa Yağmur yağdıkça Bir gecekondunun damı gibi içine doğru ağlıyor

Not many people have a timber forest of their own,

Ако преведеш езика на вятъра на човешки и прибавиш музика, а после и цветове, тогава си възможно най-близо до майчиния си език.

Просто се питах дали човек може да пише добре, ако е лош човек.

.... it wasn´t the people who were buried who were being punished, but those left behind.

Heidegger’s concept for the kind of being we ourselves are is Dasein. Literally it means ‘being-there’.We are the sort of beings who are there, in the world. What characterizes Dasein is that its existence is a concern for it in its existence.

- Половин милион души и нито едно сбиване, нито едно гадно сбиване! - Къде? – извиках аз. - Уудсток, глупако. Имам една дружка, чийто брат бил там. Мир и Любов, човече! Половин милион души!

What we are experiencing is experiential poverty. Such poverty may not only be about a lack of experiences, where nothing is happening. An abundance of activities can also create a feeling of experiential poverty. And this last point is interesting. Things just get to be too much. the problem, according to Lars Fr. H. Svendsen, is that we carry on seeking "increasingly more powerful experiences" instead of pausing to breathe deeply, shut out the world and use the time to experience ourselves. The idea that boredom can be avoided by constantly pursuing something new, being available around the clock, sending messages and clicking further, watching something you haven't yet seen, is naive. The more you try to avoid boredom, the more bored you become. Routine is like that too... Busying oneself becomes a goal in and of itself, instead of allowing that same restlessness to lead you somewhere further.

Ay; gecikmiş ağı, yosun yeşili bir canavar. İlerlemiş gece; kanatsız yarasalar, ıslanmış silahlar. Devrilmiş bir tramvay caddede. Bunlar, kargınmış bir ilkyazın simgeleri. Büyük uçurtmamı çalmışlar deliliğimden, mor gözlü çocuk ölüsü bir pazar, onu bulamıyorum.

You can't do much in this world without hurting someone else. Every time you take a breath it's to the disadvantage of someone or something. And then you have to decide how and in which way you will hurt others. And I find it quite agreeable trying not to hurt anyone, but I have made this decision about the fish. It's a pity about them, but also, if I pull up a fish, then it makes space for another fish who will be so happy to get more space. And he will become a very happy little fish. You can rationalize it in a number of different ways—maybe the fish I pull up is depressed and wants to end his life, but he hasn't really been able to do it. It's not easy if you're a fish. I wouldn't know what a big salmon who's really tired of it all would do.

Deep within, every human being hoards a pitch-black riddle. The darkness of the iris is nothing other than the starless night, the darkness deep in the eye is nothing other than the darkness of the universe.

This white hot pain, naturally, is basically nothing but a precise measure of the forces which hold this body together. It is a precise measure of the force which has made my existence possible. Death and life are actually MONSTROUS things.

So do you guys go to Warren?” I ask, downing the rest of my punch. They look at each other. One of them, Lars I think, coughs in my face. Then, Beowulf says wistfully, “Your beauty is nuanced and labyrinthine like a sentence by Proust.” I laugh, but Beowulf looks dead serious. He raises his glass to me. I notice his punch is in a plastic sippy cup. That he’s wearing black leather gloves. “Melanie Shingler is a whore compared to you,” says the boy next to him. Blake. “Pigeon-toed. Bad eyeliner. I couldn’t see it then because I was a fool but I have since developed my perception.” He too solemnly raises his sippy cup to me. He’s also wearing black leather gloves, I see. They all are.

Ede says we should post some demotivational phrases on our Facebook pages. I can’t therefore I am. To be is to be condemned. The universe is a mistake. Hope is a kind of delirium. We don’t live even once. Dead days outnumber live ones. The use of philosophy is to sadden. Existence has never answered our questions. Death is the least of our problems.

Todas as pessoas que viajam apreciam essa sensação de andar pelas ruas de uma cidade que não é aquela em que se vive, sem pressa, sem hora de voltar para casa. Por quê? Porque não há casa, lar doce lar, para onde voltar. A casa é uma prisão, mesmo se você vive sozinho. Uma prisão à qual você se acostuma, como os animais do jardim zoológico se acostumam com as suas jualas.

Os guerreiros defendem o lar, defendem as crianças, defendem as mulheres, defendem a colheita e matam os inimigos que vêm roubar essas coisas. Sem guerreiros a terra seria um lugar devastado, desolado e repleto de lamentos. No entanto, a verdadeira recompensa de um guerreiro não é a prata e o ouro que ele pode ganhar nos braços, e sim a reputação, e é por isso que existem poetas.

In the Social Democratic jargon of the time, the term ‘propaganda’ had connotations that were very different from those it later acquired. It did not mean simplistic messages used to bombard passive targets, but rather an intensive and wide-ranging education that was initiated by the workers. ‘Propagandized worker’ was therefore a title of honour, an indication of potential leader status.

the whole idea of a “holy” war was an alien concept to the Byzantine mind. Killing, as Saint Basil of Caesarea had taught in the fourth century, was sometimes necessary but never praiseworthy, and certainly not grounds for remission of sins. The Eastern Church had held this line tenaciously throughout the centuries, even rejecting the great warrior-emperor Nicephorus Phocas’s attempt to have soldiers who died fighting Muslims declared martyrs. Wars could, of course, be just, but on the whole diplomacy was infinitely preferable. Above all, eastern clergy were not permitted to take up arms, and the strange sight of Norman clerics armed and even leading soldiers disconcerted the watching hosts.

The Chancellor looked down at the paper in front of him. He cleared his throat. 'Re'lar Ambrose, are you a donkey?' Ambrose went stiff. 'No, sir,' he said. 'Are you possessed of,' he cleared his throat and read directly off the page. 'A pizzle bound to fizzle?' A few of the masters struggled to control smiles. Elodin grinned openly. Ambrose flushed. 'No sir.' 'Then I'm afraid I don't see the problem,' the Chancellor said curtly, letting the paper settle to the table.

Man is a world-forming being, a being that actively constitutes his own world, but when everything is always already fully coded, the active constituting of the world is made superfluous, and we lose friction in relation to the world.We Romantics need a meaning that we ourselves realize – and the person who is preoccupied with self-realization inevitably has a meaning problem. This is no one collective meaning in life any more, a meaning that it is up to the individual to participate in. Nor is it that easy to find an own meaning in life, either. The meaning that most people embrace is self-realization as such, but it is not obvious what type of self is to be realized, nor what should possibly result from it. The person who is certain as regards himself will not ask the question as to who he is. Only a problematic self feels the need for realization.

I return to the sprinklers and sit down. George plunks down next to me. “Did you know that a bird-eating tarantula is as big as your hand?” “Jase doesn’t have one of those, does he?” George gives me his sunniest smile. “No. He useta have a reg’lar tarantula named Agnes, but she”—his voice drops mournfully—“died.” “I’m sure she’s in tarantula heaven now,” I assure him hastily, shuddering to think what that might look like. Mrs. Garret’s van pulls in behind the motorcycle, disgorging what I assume are Duff and Andy, both red-faced and windblown. Judging by their life jackets, they’ve been at sailing camp. George and Harry, my loyal fans, rave to their mother about my accomplishments, while Patsy immediately bursts into tears, points an accusing finger at her mother, and wails, “Boob.” “It was her first word.” Mrs. Garret takes her from me, heedless of Patsy’s damp swimsuit. “There’s one for the baby book.

Cine n-a făcut pact cu diavolul n-are rost să trăiască, deoarece el exprimă simbolic esenţa vieţii mai bine decît Dumnezeu. Regretul meu este că diavolul m-a ispitit atît de rar… Dar nici Dumnezeu nu m-a iubit. Creştinii n-au înţeles nici acum că Dumnezeu este mai departe de oameni decît oamenii de el. Îmi închipui un Dumnezeu plictisit pînă dincolo de margini de aceşti oameni care nu ştiu decît să ceară, un Dumnezeu exasperat de trivialitatea creaţiei sale, dezgustat de pămînt şi de cer. Şi-mi închipui un Dumnezeu avîntîndu-se în neant, ca Isus de pe cruce… Oare ce s-ar fi întîmplat dacă soldaţii romani ar fi ascultat ruga lui Isus, dacă l-ar fi luat de pe cruce şi l-ar fi lăsat să plece? În nici un caz el nu s-ar fi dus în altă parte a lumii pentru a predica, ci pentru a muri singur, fără compătimirea oamenilor şi fără lacrimile lor. Chiar dacă Isus n-ar fi cerut soldaţilor eliberarea — din cauza orgoliului —, totuşi îmi este imposibil să cred că această idee nu l-ar fi obsedat. Neapărat Isus a crezut că e fiul lui Dumnezeu, dar aceasta nu l-a putut împiedica, în faţa jertfei pentru alţii, să se îndoiască sau să-i fie frică de moarte. În întreg procesul răstignirii, Isus a avut momente cînd, dacă nu s-ar fi îndoit că e fiul lui Dumnezeu, a regretat că e fiul lui. În faţa morţii, Isus Cristos a regretat că e fiul lui Dumnezeu. Şi dacă a primit moartea, a făcut-o numai pentru a triumfa ideile sale.

The collar of Lars of Tassla fell away and clattered onto the tiles. katriana felt unable to breathe. Her neck, so long encased with the symbol of Lars’ ownership of her, seemed paradoxically to be suddenly constricted. She felt naked. Naked and abandoned. Her head sank down to lie across the hardness of the anvil. Her entire body shook uncontrollably as she felt all security evaporate from her world. How many minutes she lay there she could not with any certainty say. Yet, eventually she became aware of one tiny point in the cruel world surrounding her. It was a scent. His scent. It entered her. It stroked inside her. It pulsed against her pain until she acknowledged its presence. Her eyes flicked open. And then she saw him there, sitting quietly beside her, watching her with all the intentness that she loved so much in him. His face was still set in the neutrality he reserved for formal times but his eyes were flashing with…with some emotion kept hidden behind his Master’s mask. katriana struggled to read the look flowing from deep inside his eyes. She awkwardly rose to kneel before her former Master. Her body and her breasts were offered. She could not do otherwise whether or not she wore his collar. (A Master's Dilemma, eXtasy)

Cennete gitmek istedim otostopla, Cinnete kadardı tüm yollar oysa, Tüm hayatı okşamak istedim kedilerin şahsında Tüm sarı, tüm kara, tüm yumuşak. İlk sevgilimle bir kilisenin bahçesinde buluşurduk, Bir mezarlıkta öpüştük ilk defa, Rengârenk boncuklar saçılmıştı benden her tarafa, Kapkaraydı ama toprak. Binlerce ruhu taciz etmiş bir ilk aşk Tanrım sorarım sana neye yarar? İpek yolunda ipektim o zaman Baharat yolunda baharat. Aşk kırmızı atlastı, Ten Greenwich başlangıç meridyeni Yağmur yağardı, durmadan yağmur Coğrafyadan da anlarım, hadi alkışlayın! Keşke aşk şiiri yazsam Ne güzel, Aktarlara tarçın diye satardım Ticareti de öğrendim bakın, Hadi alkışlayın.

He done his level best. Was he a mining on the flat.. He done it with a zest.. Was he a leading of the choir.. He done his level best. If he'd a reg'lar task to do, He never took no rest.. Or if 'twas off and on the same.. He done his level best. If he was preachin' on his beat, He'd tramp from east to west, And north to south ..in cold and heat.. He done his level best. He'd Yank a sinner outen (Hades), And land him with the blest; Then snatch a prayer'n waltz in again, And do his level best. He'd cuss and sing and howl and pray, And dance and drink and jest, He done his level best. Whate'er this man was sot to do He done it with a zest; No matter what his contract was, He'd do his level best...

*Vladimir had been interested in changing religions for some time. According to legend, he sent ambassadors to the major surrounding religions to help him decide. Islam was rejected for being without joy (especially in its rejection of alcohol and pork!), and Judaism was rejected since the Jews had lost their homeland and therefore seemed abandoned by God. Settling on Christianity, he sent his men to discover if the Latin or the Greek rite was better. It was hardly a fair fight. The ambassadors to the West found rather squat, dark churches, while their compatriots in Constantinople were treated to all the pageantry of a Divine Liturgy in the Hagia Sophia. “We no longer knew,” they breathlessly reported back to Vladimir, “whether we were in heaven or on earth.” The Russian prince was convinced. Within a year, he had been baptized, and Russia officially became Orthodox.

Most astonishing of all to the citizens of Constantinople, however, was the emperor’s habit of wandering in disguise through the streets of the capital, questioning those he met about their concerns and ensuring that merchants were charging fair prices for their wares. Once a week, accompanied by the blare of trumpets, he would ride from one end of the city to the other, encouraging any who had complaints to seek him out. Those who stopped him could be certain of a sympathetic ear no matter how powerful their opponent. One story tells of a widow who approached the emperor and made the startling claim that the very horse he was riding had been stolen from her by a senior magistrate of the city. Theophilus dutifully looked into the matter, and when he discovered that the widow was correct, he had the magistrate flogged and told his watching subjects that justice was the greatest virtue of a ruler.*

There is probably something good in every religion, the important thing is how you practice it. And this is when I found out that the most beautiful thing is to be able to live with a religion. Not just by displaying it and going to church and all, but by really being able to live some of these thoughts in your everyday life. This is a good thought. My problem right now is—and I just went to a Catholic service in connection with my daughter's something-or-another—and I got so damn annoyed by the fact that every text was about humility in relation to God. That's annoying, and I keep on being annoyed by it. Granted, the texts were written by people and not by God, but it's still so annoying. I don't see the meaning of you being humble just because you've been created by God and He has created all this. You can be humble toward life and toward other human beings and toward creativity and everything—and you are—but being humble toward the man who has created the whole circus? Of course, but you shouldn't have to prostrate yourself, and you do that in many religions—you crawl in the dust before these gods. Why? I can see why some king down here on earth might enjoy seeing people crawling before him, but if this guy is that great, then he shouldn't care whether I bow down before him or whether I play around with my dick at night—he shouldn't care a bit about anything like that. As long as I don't do anything that will harm his creation, as long as I don't kill, say, too many fish—well, he's OK with fish, they eat them in the Bible. But this thing about throwing yourself on the floor and exclaiming, "You're so great! You're so great!"—that's completely illogical. If you believe in him, then he's the greatest anyhow. You look at a tiny leaf and you'll get humble—everyone will—even some stupid redneck in an ugly car. You really have to be stupid not to be able to appreciate a thing like that—a little leaf is like looking into eternity. It's totally amazing! And you don't have to stand around in church every day proclaiming that you're a little sinner and worth nothing and he is everything. That's annoying. Sorry, I must have made my point by now.

‎"Você nasceu no lar que precisava nascer, vestiu o corpo físico que merecia, mora onde melhor Deus te proporcionou, de acordo com o teu adiantamento. Você possui os recursos financeiros coerentes com tuas necessidades… nem mais, nem menos, mas o justo para as tuas lutas terrenas. Seu ambiente de trabalho é o que você elegeu espontaneamente para a sua realização. Teus parentes e amigos são as almas que você mesmo atraiu, com tua própria afinidade. Portanto, teu destino está constantemente sob teu controle. Você escolhe, recolhe, elege, atrai, busca, expulsa, modifica tudo aquilo que te rodeia a existência. Teus pensamentos e vontades são a chave de teus atos e atitudes. São as fontes de atração e repulsão na jornada da tua vivência. Não reclame, nem se faça de vítima. Antes de tudo, analisa e observa. A mudança está em tuas mãos. Reprograma tua meta, busca o bem e você viverá melhor. Embora ninguém possa voltar atrás e fazer um novo começo, qualquer um pode começar agora e fazer um novo fim.

on that last Monday of the empire’s history, the mood changed. There was no rest for the weary, of course, and work continued, but for the first time in weeks, the inhabitants of the city began to make their way to the Hagia Sophia. There, for the first and last time in Byzantine history, the divisions that had split the church for centuries were forgotten, Greek priests stood shoulder to shoulder with Latin ones, and a truly ecumenical service began. While the population gathered in the great church, Constantine gave a final speech—a funeral oration, as Edward Gibbon put it—for the Roman Empire. Reminding his assembled troops of their glorious history, he proudly charged them to acquit themselves with dignity and honor: “Animals may run from animals, but you are men, and worthy heirs of the great heroes of Ancient Greece and Rome.”* Turning to the Italians who were fighting in defense of Constantinople, the emperor thanked them for their service, assuring them that they were now brothers, united by a common bond. After shaking hands with each of the commanders, he dismissed them to their posts and joined the rest of the population in the Hagia Sophia.

Este un punct de vedere superficial (al unui om care probabil n-a văzut vreodată un om disperat, nici măcar pe sine însuşi) atunci când se spune despre un disperat, de parcă aceasta i-ar fi pedeapsa, că el se distruge pe sine. Căci tocmai aceasta vrea cu disperare şi, spre durerea sa, nu poate, fiindcă prin disperare a fost dat pradă flacărilor ceva ce nu poate arde sau nu poate să fie mistuit, sinele. O fetişcană disperă din dragoste, deci disperă pentru pierderea iubitului, care a murit sau i-a devenit infidel. Aceasta nu este o disperare care s-a manifestat, ci ea disperă pentru ea însăşi. Acest sine al ei, de care s-ar fi eliberat sau pe care l-ar fi pierdut la modul cel mai încântător cu putinţă dacă ar fi devenit iubita «lui». Acest sine este acum pentru ea o calamitate, pentru că trebuie să fie un sine fără «el»; acest sine care ar fi devenit comoara ei, deşi ar fi fost de altfel la fel de disperat, chiar dacă într-un alt sens, a devenit acum pentru ea respingător de gol, din moment ce «el» este mort sau i-a devenit odios, amintinu-şi că a înşelat-o. Încearcă acum să-i spui unei asemenea fete: «Te distrugi pe tine însăţi!» şi o vei auzi răspunzând: «O, nu, durerea mea este tocmai că nu o pot face.»

Bir mağara düşün dostum. Girişi boydan boya gün ışığına açık bir yeraltı mağarası. İnsanlar düşün bu mağarada. Çocukluktan beri zincire vurulmuş hepsi; ne yerlerinden kıpırdamaları, ne başlarını çevirmeleri kabil, yalnız karşılarını görüyorlar. Arkalarından bir ışık geliyor. Uzaktan, tepede yakılan bir ateşten. Ateşle aralarında bir yol var, yol boyunca alçak bir duvar. Gözbağcıları seyircilerden ayıran setleri bilirsin, üzerlerinde kuklaları sergilerler, öyle bir duvar iste... ve insanlar düşün, ellerinde eşyalar: tahtadan taştan insan veya hayvan heykelcikleri, boy boy, biçim biçim. Bu insanlar duvar boyunca yürümektedirler, kimi konuşarak, kimi susarak. Garip bir tablo diyeceksin, hele esirler daha da garip. Doğru.. o esirler ki ömür boyu başlarını çeviremeyecek, kendilerini de, arkadaşlarını da, arkalarından geçen nesneleri de duvara vuran gölgelerinden izleyecekler. Şimdi de mağarada seslerin yankılandığını düşün... dışarıdan biri konuştu mu, esirler gölgelerin konuştuğunu sanır, öyle değil mi? Kısaca onlar için tek gerçek var: gölgeler. Tutalım ki zincirlerini çözdük esirlerin, onları vehimlerinden kurtardık. Ne olurdu dersin, anlatayım. Ayağa kalkmağa, başını çevirmeğe, yürümeğe ve ışığa bakmağa zorlanan esir, bunları yaparken acı duyardı. Gözleri kamaşır, gölgelerini görmeğe alıştığı cisimleri tanıyamazdı. Biri, ona: "Ömür boyu gördüklerin hayaldi. Şimdi gerçekle karşı karşıyasın." diyecek olsa, sonrada eşyaları bir bir gösterse,"Bunlar nedir?" diyecek olsa, şaşırıp kalır, mağarada gördüklerini, şimdi gösterilenlerden çok daha gerçek sanırdı. Bir de düşün ki tutsağı mağaradan çıkarıp dik bir patikada güneşin aydınlattığı bölgelere sürükledik. Bağırdı, yanıp yakıldı, öfkelendi... kulak asmadık. Gün ışığına yaklaştıkça gözleri daha çok kamaştı. Hiçbirini seçemez oldu gerçek nesnelerin. Sonra, yavaş yavaş alıştı aydınlığa. Önce gölgeleri fark etti, arkasından insanların ve cisimlerin suya vuran akislerini. Akşam olunca göğe çevirdi bakışlarını, ayı gördü, yıldızları gördü. Zamanla güneşin suya vuran akislerine bakabildi. Nihayet gökteki güneşe çevirdi gözlerini ve düşünmeğe başladı. Ona öyle geldi ki mevsimleri de, yılları da güneş yaratıyor, görünen dünyanın yöneticisi o. Esirlerin mağarada gördükleri ne varsa onun eseri ve eski günlerini hatırladı. Ne kadar yanlış anlamışlardı bilgeliği. Mutluydu şimdi, mağarada kalan arkadaşlarına acıyordu. Eski hayatına, eski vehimlerine dönmemek için her çileye katlanabilirdi. Adamın mağaraya döndüğünü tasavvur et. Karanlığa kolay kolay alışabilir mi? Dostlarına hakikati söylese dinlerler mi onu? Ağzını açar açmaz alay ederler: "Sen dışarıda gözlerini kaybetmişsin arkadaş. Saçmalıyorsun. Biz yerimizden çok memnunuz. Bizi dışarı çıkmağa zorlayacakların vay haline." İşte böyle aziz dostum. Sana anlattığım hikaye kendi halimizin tasviridir. Yer altındaki mağara: görünürler dünyası. Yücelere çıkan tutsak, meseller(idea'lar) alemine yükselen ruh.

Cea mai minunată femeie din lume este cea care te iubeşte cu adevărat şi pe care-o iubeşti cu adevărat. Nimic altceva nu contează. Odată, pe vremea liceului, umblam pe bulevard cu un prieten, doi puşti zăluzi şi frustraţi care dădeau note «gagicilor» şi vorbeau cu atât mai scabros cu cât erau, de fapt, mai inocenţi erotic. Ce fund are una, ce balcoane are alta... Femeile nu erau nimic altceva pentru noi decât nişte obiecte de lux, ca automobilele lustruite din vitrinele magazinelor «Volvo» sau «Maserati»: nu ne imaginam cu adevărat că vom avea şi noi una vreodată. Prin dreptul cinematografului Patria am zărit o tipă trăznitoare. Am rămas înlemniţi: ce pulpe în ciorapi de plasă neagră, ce fund rotund şi ce mijloc subţire, ce ţoale pe ea, ce plete de sârmă roşie, răsucită în mii de feluri... Ne-am învârtit în jurul ei ca s-o vedem şi din faţă: cum putea avea aşa pereche de ţâţe, aşa de perfecte cum numai în albumele de artă — care pe-atunci ne ţineau loc de Penthouse—mai văzuserăm? Pentru cine era o astfel de fiinţă, cum putea fi o noapte de sex cu ea? Până la urmă ne-am aşezat la coadă la bilete, fără s-o scăpăm din ochi şi fără să-ncetăm comentariile. Când, îl auzim pe unul, un tip destul de jegos care stătea şi el la coadă, mâncând seminţe, înaintea noastră: «E bună paraşuta asta, nu? V-ar place şi vouă, ciutanilor... Da' ascultaţi-mă pe mine, c-am fumat destule ca ea: cât o vedeţi de futeşă, să ştiţi că e pe undeva un bărbat sătul de ea până peste cap! Poa'să fie cea mai mişto din lume, poa'să fie şi Brijibardo, că tot i-e drag vreunuia de ea ca mie de nevastă-mea...» Am fost mult mai şocat de remarcile astea decât mi-aş fi imaginat. Cum să te plictiseşti de frumuseţea însăşi, de neatins şi de neconceput? De cea pentru care ţi-ai da şi pielea de pe tine? Ce ar putea dori un bărbat mai mult decât să-şi poată trece braţul în jurul mijlocului ei, să poată privi minute-n şir în ochii ei, să o întindă încetişor pe pat... Să o scoată din învelişul ei de dantelă mătăsoasă... De-aici încolo imaginaţia mea se bloca, nu-mi puteam închipui cum e să faci dragoste. De câte ori mă gândeam cum ar fi, vedeam doar un ocean roz care se răsuceşte asupra ta şi te sufocă... Am cunoscut apoi femei reale, femei imaginare, femei din vis, femei din cărţi, femei din reclame, femei din filme, femei din videoclipuri. Femei din revistele porno. Fiecare altfel şi fiecare cu altceva de oferit. M-am îndrăgostit de câteva şi de fiecare dată a fost la fel: primul semn că aş putea-o iubi a fost mereu că nu m-am putut gândi, văzând-o, «cât de futeşă e». Chiar dacă era. Bărbaţii au creierul impregnat de hormoni. Nici cel mai distins intelectual nu e altfel, până şi el, la orice vârstă, îşi imaginează cum ar face-o cu fata plictisită, necunoscută, de lângă el. Dar când cunoşti cea mai minunată femeie din lume, care e cea pe care o poţi iubi, semnul este, trebuie să fie, că nici pulpele, nici «balcoanele» nu se mai văd, de parcă hormonii sexului şi-ai agresivităţii s-ar retrage din creierul tău tumefiat şi l-ar lăsa inocent ca un creier de copil şi translucid ca o corniţă de melc. Facem sex cu un creier de bărbat, dar iubim cu unul de copil, încrezător, dependent, dornic de a da şi a primi afecţiune. Femeile minunate din viaţa mea, toate cele pe care le-am iubit cu adevărat şi care-au răspuns cu dragoste dragostei mele, au fost într-un fel necorporale, au fost bucurie pură, nevroză pură, experienţă pură. Senzualitatea, uneori dusă până foarte departe, nu a fost decât un ingredient într-o aventură complexă şi epuizantă a minţii. Pentru mine nu există, deci, «cea mai minunată» în sensul de 90-60-90, nici în cel de blondă, brună sau roşcată, înaltă sau minionă, vânzătoare sau poetă. Cea mai minunată este cea cu care am putut avea un copil virtual numit «cuplul nostru», «dragostea noastră».

Rea­sons Why I Loved Be­ing With Jen I love what a good friend you are. You’re re­ally en­gaged with the lives of the peo­ple you love. You or­ga­nize lovely ex­pe­ri­ences for them. You make an ef­fort with them, you’re pa­tient with them, even when they’re side­tracked by their chil­dren and can’t pri­or­i­tize you in the way you pri­or­i­tize them. You’ve got a gen­er­ous heart and it ex­tends to peo­ple you’ve never even met, whereas I think that ev­ery­one is out to get me. I used to say you were naive, but re­ally I was jeal­ous that you al­ways thought the best of peo­ple. You are a bit too anx­ious about be­ing seen to be a good per­son and you def­i­nitely go a bit over­board with your left-wing pol­i­tics to prove a point to ev­ery­one. But I know you re­ally do care. I know you’d sign pe­ti­tions and help peo­ple in need and vol­un­teer at the home­less shel­ter at Christ­mas even if no one knew about it. And that’s more than can be said for a lot of us. I love how quickly you read books and how ab­sorbed you get in a good story. I love watch­ing you lie on the sofa read­ing one from cover-to-cover. It’s like I’m in the room with you but you’re in a whole other gal­axy. I love that you’re al­ways try­ing to im­prove your­self. Whether it’s running marathons or set­ting your­self chal­lenges on an app to learn French or the fact you go to ther­apy ev­ery week. You work hard to be­come a bet­ter ver­sion of your­self. I think I prob­a­bly didn’t make my ad­mi­ra­tion for this known and in­stead it came off as ir­ri­ta­tion, which I don’t re­ally feel at all. I love how ded­i­cated you are to your fam­ily, even when they’re an­noy­ing you. Your loy­alty to them wound me up some­times, but it’s only be­cause I wish I came from a big fam­ily. I love that you al­ways know what to say in con­ver­sa­tion. You ask the right ques­tions and you know ex­actly when to talk and when to lis­ten. Ev­ery­one loves talk­ing to you be­cause you make ev­ery­one feel im­por­tant. I love your style. I know you think I prob­a­bly never no­ticed what you were wear­ing or how you did your hair, but I loved see­ing how you get ready, sit­ting in front of the full-length mir­ror in our bed­room while you did your make-up, even though there was a mir­ror on the dress­ing ta­ble. I love that you’re mad enough to swim in the English sea in No­vem­ber and that you’d pick up spi­ders in the bath with your bare hands. You’re brave in a way that I’m not. I love how free you are. You’re a very free per­son, and I never gave you the sat­is­fac­tion of say­ing it, which I should have done. No one knows it about you be­cause of your bor­ing, high-pres­sure job and your stuffy up­bring­ing, but I know what an ad­ven­turer you are un­der­neath all that. I love that you got drunk at Jack­son’s chris­ten­ing and you al­ways wanted to have one more drink at the pub and you never com­plained about get­ting up early to go to work with a hang­over. Other than Avi, you are the per­son I’ve had the most fun with in my life. And even though I gave you a hard time for al­ways try­ing to for al­ways try­ing to im­press your dad, I ac­tu­ally found it very adorable be­cause it made me see the child in you and the teenager in you, and if I could time-travel to any­where in his­tory, I swear, Jen, the only place I’d want to go is to the house where you grew up and hug you and tell you how beau­ti­ful and clever and funny you are. That you are spec­tac­u­lar even with­out all your sports trophies and mu­sic cer­tifi­cates and in­cred­i­ble grades and Ox­ford ac­cep­tance. I’m sorry that I loved you so much more than I liked my­self, that must have been a lot to carry. I’m sorry I didn’t take care of you the way you took care of me. And I’m sorry I didn’t take care of my­self, ei­ther. I need to work on it. I’m pleased that our break-up taught me that. I’m sorry I went so mental. I love you. I always will. I'm glad we met.

She was the first close friend who I felt like I’d re­ally cho­sen. We weren’t in each other’s lives be­cause of any obli­ga­tion to the past or con­ve­nience of the present. We had no shared his­tory and we had no rea­son to spend all our time to­ gether. But we did. Our friend­ship in­ten­si­fied as all our friends had chil­dren – she, like me, was un­con­vinced about hav­ing kids. And she, like me, found her­self in a re­la­tion­ship in her early thir­ties where they weren’t specif­i­cally work­ing to­wards start­ing a fam­ily. By the time I was thirty-four, Sarah was my only good friend who hadn’t had a baby. Ev­ery time there was an­other preg­nancy an­nounce­ment from a friend, I’d just text the words ‘And an­other one!’ and she’d know what I meant. She be­came the per­son I spent most of my free time with other than Andy, be­cause she was the only friend who had any free time. She could meet me for a drink with­out plan­ning it a month in ad­vance. Our friend­ship made me feel lib­er­ated as well as safe. I looked at her life choices with no sym­pa­thy or con­cern for her. If I could ad­mire her de­ci­sion to re­main child-free, I felt en­cour­aged to ad­mire my own. She made me feel nor­mal. As long as I had our friend­ship, I wasn’t alone and I had rea­son to be­lieve I was on the right track. We ar­ranged to meet for din­ner in Soho af­ter work on a Fri­day. The waiter took our drinks or­der and I asked for our usual – two Dirty Vodka Mar­ti­nis. ‘Er, not for me,’ she said. ‘A sparkling wa­ter, thank you.’ I was ready to make a joke about her un­char­ac­ter­is­tic ab­sti­nence, which she sensed, so as soon as the waiter left she said: ‘I’m preg­nant.’ I didn’t know what to say. I can’t imag­ine the ex­pres­sion on my face was par­tic­u­larly en­thu­si­as­tic, but I couldn’t help it – I was shocked and felt an un­war­ranted but in­tense sense of be­trayal. In a de­layed re­ac­tion, I stood up and went to her side of the ta­ble to hug her, un­able to find words of con­grat­u­la­tions. I asked what had made her change her mind and she spoke in va­garies about it ‘just be­ing the right time’ and wouldn’t elab­o­rate any fur­ther and give me an an­swer. And I needed an an­swer. I needed an an­swer more than any­thing that night. I needed to know whether she’d had a re­al­iza­tion that I hadn’t and, if so, I wanted to know how to get it. When I woke up the next day, I re­al­ized the feel­ing I was ex­pe­ri­enc­ing was not anger or jeal­ousy or bit­ter­ness – it was grief. I had no one left. They’d all gone. Of course, they hadn’t re­ally gone, they were still my friends and I still loved them. But huge parts of them had dis­ap­peared and there was noth­ing they could do to change that. Un­less I joined them in their spa­ces, on their sched­ules, with their fam­i­lies, I would barely see them. And I started dream­ing of an­other life, one com­pletely re­moved from all of it. No more chil­dren’s birth­day par­ties, no more chris­ten­ings, no more bar­be­cues in the sub­urbs. A life I hadn’t ever se­ri­ously con­tem­plated be­fore. I started dream­ing of what it would be like to start all over again. Be­cause as long as I was here in the only Lon­don I knew – mid­dle-class Lon­don, cor­po­rate Lon­don, mid-thir­ties Lon­don, mar­ried Lon­don – I was in their world. And I knew there was a whole other world out there.

Era o noapte minunată, cum numai în tinereţe pot fi nopţile, iubite cititorule. Bolta înstelată era atât de luminoasă, încât, privind-o, te întrebai fără să vrei: cum e cu putinţă oare, ca sub firmamentul acesta de vrajă să mai existe şi oameni posomorâţi ori cu toane? E foarte tinerească, desigur, şi această întrebare, iubite cititorule, deie Domnul ca ea să-ţi însenineze cât mai des sufletul! Alunecând însă cu gândul la feluriţi oameni îmbufnaţi şi cu toane, mi-am amintit şi de starea mea sufletească în tot cursul acelei zile. Un sentiment ciudat de înstrăinare puse pe nesimţite stăpânire pe mine, chiar din zori. Încercam senzaţia penibilă a omului însingurat care deodată se simte părăsit şi uitat de toţi. Oricine este în drept, fireşte, să mă întrebe: dar cine erau aceşti „toţi"? de vreme ce, în cei opt ani de când locuiesc aici, la Petersburg, n-am reuşit să leg aproape nici o cunoştinţă. Şi ce rost ar avea, la ce mi-ar folosi de fapt asemenea cunoştinţe, când, fără să fi cunoscut pe cineva direct, am ajuns să cunosc aproape tot Petersburgul! De aceea am şi avut impresia că mă pără¬sesc toţi, când oraşul întreg s-a ridicat deodată cu tot calabalâcul, pornind într-un exod grăbit spre localităţile de vilegiatură din împrejurimile capitalei. Îngrozit la gândul că rămân singur, am hoinărit trei zile la rând pe străzi, pradă unei tristeţi cople¬şitoare şi fără a izbuti să-mi dau seama de ceea ce se petrece cu mine. Fie că mergeam pe Bulevardul Nevski, fie că străbăteam parcul sau rătăceam de-a lungul cheiului — nu mai întâlneam acum nici un chip cunoscut, nici unul din oamenii aceia cu care mă obişnuisem a da ochii în cutare loc, la cutare oră, ani de-a rândul. Ei nu mă cunoscuseră, desigur, dar eu îi cunoşteam... Îi cunoşteam de aproape, căci le studiasem atât de bine chipurile, încât am ajuns să le admir când sunt voioase şi mă simt tare abătut când le văd întunecate. Am ajuns chiar să leg un fel de prietenie cu un bătrânel, pe care, nu e zi de la Dumnezeu, să nu-l întâlnesc, la aceeaşi oră, pe Fontanka. Are o înfăţişare atât de gravă şi e atât de cufundat în gânduri! Tot timpul mormăie ceva pe sub nas, gesticulează cu mâna stângă, iar în dreapta ţine un baston lung, noduros, cu măciulia aurită. Chiar şi el m-a observat şi manifestă faţă de mine o simpatie sinceră. Sunt convins că, dacă s-ar întâmpla să nu fiu la ora obişnuită şi pe locul ştiut de pe Fontanka, l-ar cuprinde ipohondria. Iată de ce câteodată aproape că ne şi salutăm, mai ales când amândoi suntem în bună dispoziţie. Mai deunăzi, după ce nu ne văzusem două zile la rând, întâlnindu-ne a treia zi, printr-o pornire spontană, duserăm involuntar mâinile la pălărie; ne oprirăm totuşi la timp, stăpânindu-ne gestul şi trecurăm cu simpatie unul pe lângă celălalt. La fel de bine îmi sunt cunoscute şi casele. Când trec pe stradă, fiecare parcă m-ar întâmpina cu aerul că vrea să-mi iasă în cale, mă priveşte cu toate ferestrele şi doar că nu-mi spune: „Bună ziua! Cum vă mai simţiţi? Cât despre mine, mulţumesc lui Dumnezeu, sunt bine sănătoasă, iar pe la începutul lunii am să mai capăt un etaj"; sau: „Cum o duceţi cu sănătatea? Eu de mâine intru în reparaţie" (...) Sau, n-am să uit niciodată întâmplarea cu o căsuţă foarte drăguţă, de culoare roz-pal. Era o căsuţă de zid, zveltă şi cochetă, şi mă privea cu atâta prietenie, iar la vecinele ei grosolane şi greoaie se uita atât de semeaţă, încât inima-mi tresaltă de bucurie ori de câte ori mi se întâmpla să trec pe lângă ea. Dar săptămâna trecută, având drum pe acea stradă şi aruncându-mi privirea spre prietena mea, o auzii căinându-se amarnic: „Priveşte, mă vopsesc în galben !" Mizerabilii! Nu-i cruţaseră nici coloanele, nici cornişele. Prietena mea se îngălbenise ca un canar. De supărare, simţii în gură gust de fiere şi nici până acum nu mi-am găsit puteri destule ca să mai dau ochi cu sărmana mea prietenă. (...)Aşadar, cititorule cred că înţelegi cam în cel fel cunosc eu tot oraşul Petersburg. youtubecom/watch?v=Fa5EVxyS7QM&

Anumite mărturii, rare, ce-i drept, ni-l înfăţişează pe Gogol ca pe un sfînt; altele, mai frecvente, ca pe-o fantomă. Nu i se cunoaşte nicio relaţie amoroasă. Biografii săi vorbesc deschis de impotenţă. Nu e cusur care să izoleze mai mult. Impotentul dispune de o forţă lăuntrică ce-l singularizează, îl face inaccesibil şi, în chip paradoxal, primejdios: provoacă frică. Animal desprins de animalitate, bărbat fără neam, viaţă abandonată de instinct, el se înalţă prin tot ce a pierdut: e victima preferată a spiritului. Ne-am putea imagina un şobolan impotent? Rozătoarele realizează de minune actul cu pricina. Nu acelaşi lucru se poate afirma despre oameni: cu cît sînt mai excepţionali, cu atît se agravează la ei această slăbiciune majoră ce-i smulge din lanţul fiinţelor. Orice activitate le este îngăduită, mai puţin aceea ce ne înrudeşte cu ansamblul zoologiei. Sexualitatea ne egalizează; mai mult: ne răpeşte misterul... Ea este aceea care, în mai mare măsură decît orice altă nevoie şi activitate, ne pune pe picior de egalitate cu semenii noştri: cu cît o practicăm mai asiduu, cu atît devenim mai asemănători. Abstinenţa voluntară sau forţată, proiectînd individul în acelaşi timp mai sus şi mai jos de Specie, face din el un amestec de sfînt şi imbecil care ne pune pe ganduri şi ne consternează. De aici si ura echivocă pe care o simţim faţă de călugări, ca de altfel faţă de orice bărbat care a renunţat la femeie, care a renunţat să fie ca noi. Nu-i vom ierta niciodată singurătatea: ea ne umileşte şi ne dezgustă, ne sfidează. Gogol a mărturisit cîndva că dacă ar fi cedat iubirii, aceasta l-ar fi «făcut praf şi pulbere pe dată». O asemenea mărturisire, care ne răscoleşte şi ne fascinează, ne duce cu gîndul la «taina» lui Kierkegaard, la «ghimpele din carnea sa». Totuşi, filozoful danez era o natură erotică: ruperea logodnei, eşecul în iubire l-au chinuit întreaga viaţă şi i-au marcat pînă şi scrierile teologice. Ar trebui atunci să-l comparăm pe Gogol cu Swift, celălalt «osîndit»? Ar însemna să uităm că acesta a avut şansa, dacă nu să iubească, cel puţin să facă, victime. Pentru a fixa locul lui Gogol, trebuie să ne imaginăm un Swift fără Stella şi fără Vanessa. Fiinţele care trăiesc sub ochii noştri în Revizorul sau în Suflete moarte, observă un biograf, nu sînt «nimic». Şi fiind «nimic», sunt «totul». Intr-adevăr, «substanţa» le lipseşte; de unde, universalitatea lor. Ce sînt Cicikov, Pliuşkin, Sobakevici, Nozdriov, Malinov, eroul din Mantaua ori acela din Nasul, dacă nu noi înşine reduşi la adevărata noastră esenţă? «Suflete goale», spune Gogol; şi totuşi, ele au o anume măreţie: aceea a platitudinii. Un Shakespeare al meschinului, s-ar spune, un Shakespeare preocupat să ne observe ideile fixe, micile obsesii, foiala noastră zilnică. Nimeni n-a mers mai departe decat Gogol în perceperea cotidianului. De prea multă realitate, personajele sale devin inexistente şi se preschimbă in simboluri în care ne recunoaştem pe deplin. Ele nu decad: sînt decăzute dintru început. Fără să vrem, ne vin în minte Demonii; dar, in vreme ce eroii lui Dostoievski se avîntă spre limitele lor, eroii lui Gogol dau îndărăt spre acelea ce le sînt proprii; unii par să răspundă unei chemări ce-i depăşeşte, ceilalţi nu dau ascultare decft nesfîrşitei lor vulgarităţi.