Milan Kundera Slowness Quotes

Love is by definition an unmerited gift; being loved without meriting it is the very proof of real love. If a woman tells me: I love you because you're intelligent, because you're decent, because you buy me gifts, because you don't chase women, because you do the dishes, then I'm disappointed; such love seems a rather self-interested business. How much finer it is to hear: I'm crazy about you even though you're neither intelligent nor decent, even though you're a liar, an egotist, a bastard.

The degree of slowness is directionally proportional to the intensity of memory. The degree of speed is directionally proportional to the intensity of forgetting.

She is sadder and sadder, and for a man there is no balm more soothing than the sadness he has caused a woman.

There is a secret bond between slowness and memory, between speed and forgetting. A man is walking down the street. At a certain moment, he tries to recall something, but the recollection escapes him. Automatically, he slows down. Meanwhile, a person who wants to forget a disagreeable incident he has just lived through starts unconsciously to speed up his pace, as if he were trying to distance himself from a thing still too close to him in time. In existential mathematics that experience takes the form of two basic equations: The degree of slowness is directly proportional to the intensity of memory; the degree of speed is directly proportional to the intensity of forgetting.

The religion of orgasm: utilitarianism projected into sex life; efficiency versus indolence; coition reduced to an obstacle to be got past as quickly as possible in order to reach an ecstatic explosion, the only true goal of love-making and of the universe.

الحب بالتعريف هو هدية غير مشروطة، أن تكون محبوباً بدون اشتراط لهو البرهان على الحب الحقيقي. لو أخبرتني امرأة: أنا أحبك لأنك ذكي، لأنك لائق، لأنك تبتاع لي الهدايا، لأنك لا تلاحق النساء، لأنك تغسل الأطباق.. حينها سأكون في خيبة أمل، فهكذا حب - في الواقع - هو مشروع مصلحة ذاتية. كم هو أكثر دقة أن نسمع: أنا مجنونة بك ولو لم تكن ذكياً أو لائقاً، حتى ولو كنت كاذباً أو مغروراً أو مجرد لقيط!

I beg you friend, be happy. I have the vague sense that on your capacity to be happy hangs our only hope.

(existential mathematics...) the degree of slowness is directly proportional to the intensity of memory; the degree of speed is directly proportional to the intensity of forgetting.” –p. 39

Speed is the form of ecstasy the technical revolution has bestowed on man. As opposed to a motorcyclist, the runner is always present in his body, forever required to think about his blisters, his exhaustion; when he runs he feels his weight, his age, more conscious than ever of himself and of his time of life. This all changes when man delegates the faculty of speed to a machine: from then on, his own body is outside the process, and he gives over to a speed that is noncorporeal, nonmaterial, pure speed, speed itself, ecstasy speed.

في المستقبل يكمن مصدر الخوف ، ومن تحرر من المستقبل لا يبقى لديه ما يخشاه

A scarf from her dress works free and floats behind her the way memories float behind the dead.

Is goodwill so fragile, so precarious a thing, then? (Of course, dear fellow, of course)

تزداد جولي حزناً. و بالنسبة للرجل ، لا يوجد بلسم للألم أفضل من الحزن الذي يسببه لامرأة.

Why has the pleasure of slowness disappeared? Ah, where have they gone, the amblers of yesteryear? Where have they gone, those loafing heroes of folk song, those vagabonds who roam from one mill to another and bed down under the stars?

In existential mathematics that experience takes the form of two basic equations: The degree of slowness is directly proportional to the intensity of memory; the degree of speed is directly proportional to the intensity of forgetting.

What could I say? Maybe this: the man hunched over his motorcycle can focus only on the present instant of his flight; he is caught in a fragment of time cut off from both the past and the future; he is wrenched from the continuity of time; he is outside time; in other words, he is in a state of ecstasy; in that state he is unaware of his age, his wife, his children, his worries, and so he has no fear, because the source of fear is in the future, and a person freed of the future has nothing to fear.

Because beyond their practical function, all gestures have a meaning that exceeds the intention of those who make them; when people in bathing suits fling themselves into the water, it is joy itself that shows in the gesture, notwithstanding any sadness the divers may actually feel. When someone jumps into the water fully clothed, it is another thing entirely: the only person who jumps into the water fully clothed is a person trying to drown; and a person trying to drown does not dive headfirst; he lets himself fall: thus speaks the immemorial language of gestures.

... in that state he is unaware of his age, his wife, his children, his worries, and so he has no fear, because the source of fear is in the future, and a person freed of the future has nothing to fear.

Cada possibilidade nova que tem a existência, até a menos provável, transforma a existência inteira.

Whenever I think about ancient cultures nostalgia seizes me. Perhaps this is nothing but envy of the sweet slowness of the history of that time. The era of ancient Egyptian culture lasted for several thousand years; the era of Greek antiquity for almost a thousand. In this respect, a single human life imitates the history of mankind; at first it is plunged into immobile slowness, and then only gradually does it accelerate more and more.

When I described Madame de T's night, I recalled the well-known equation from one of the first chapters of the textbook of existential mathematics: the degree of speed is directly proportional to the intensity of forgetting. From that equation we can deduce various corrollaries, for instance this one: our period is given over to the demon of speed, and that is the reason it so easily forgets its own self. Now I would reverse that statement and say: our period is obsessed by the desire to forget, and it is to fulfill that desire that it gives over to the demon of speed; it picks up the pace to show us that it no longer wishes to be remembered; that it is tired of itself; sick of itself; that it wants to blow out the tiny trembling flame of memory.

He looks at Mama out of the corner of his eye, again surprised by how little she is. As if all of her life has been a slow process of shrinkage. But just what is that shrinkage? Is it the real shrinkage of a person abandoning his adult dimensions and starting on the long journey through old age and death toward distances where there is only a nothingness without dimension?

Tous les hommes politiques d'aujourd'hui, selon Pontevin, sont un peu danseurs, et tous les danseurs se mêlent de politique, ce qui, toutefois, ne devrait pas nous amener à les confondre. Le danseur se distingue de l'homme politique ordinaire en ceci qu'il ne désire pas le pouvoir mais la gloire ; il ne désire pas imposer au monde telle ou telle organisation sociale (il s'en soucie comme d'une guigne) mais occuper la scène pour faire rayonner son moi.

Why has the pleasure of slowness disappeared? Ah, where have they gone, the amblers of yesteryear? Where have they gone, those loafing heroes of folk song, those vagabonds who roam from one mill to another and bed down under the stars? Have they vanished along with footpaths, with grasslands and clearings, with nature? There is a Czech proverb that describes their easy indolence by a metaphor: “They are gazing at God’s windows.” A person gazing at God’s windows is not bored; he is happy. In our world, indolence has turned into having nothing to do, which is a completely different thing: a person with nothing to do is frustrated, bored, is constantly searching for the activity he lacks.

Le sentiment d'être élu est présent, par exemple, dans toute relation amoureuse. car l'amour, par définition, est un cadeau non mérité ; être aimé sans mérite, c'est même la preuve d'un vrai amour. Si une femme me dit : je t'aime parce que tu es intelligent, parce que tu es honnête, parce que tu m'achètes des cadeaux, parce que tu ne dragues pas, parce que tu fais la vaiselle, je suis déçu ; cet amour a l'air de quelque chose d'intéressé. Combien il est plus beau d'entendre : je suis folle de toi bien que tu ne sois ni intelligent ni honnête, bien que tu sois menteur, égoïste, salaud. (chapitre 15)

The gigantic invisible broom that transforms, disfigures, erases landscapes has been at the job for millennia now, but its movements, which used to be slow, just barely perceptible, have sped up so much that I wonder: Would an Odyssey even be conceivable today? Is the epic of the return still pertinent to our time?

Change the world! In Pontevin's view, what a monstrous goal! Not because the world is so admirable as it is but because any change leads inevitably to something worse.

El amor, por definición, es un regalo no merecido; ser amado sin mérito es incluso la prueba de un amor verdadero.

The way contemporary history is told is like a huge concert where they present all of Beethoven’s one hundred thirty-eight opuses one after the other, but actually play just the first eight bars of each.

Actually, he had never before looked at the scenery. He had always driven toward a goal, to arrange or discuss something, and for him the world's space had become a negative, a waste of time, an obstacle slowing down his activity.

Être élu est une notion théologique qui veut dire : sans aucun mérite, par un verdict surnaturel, par une volonté libre, sinon capricieuse, de Dieu, on est choisi pour quelque chose d'exceptionnel et d'extraordinaire. C'est dans cette conviction que les saints ont puisé la force de supporter les plus atroces supplices. Les notions théologiques se reflètent, telle leur propre parodie, dans la trivialité de nos vies ; chacun de nous souffre (plus ou moins) de la bassesse de sa vie trop ordinaire et désire y échapper et s'élever. Chacun de nous a connu l'illusion (plus ou moins forte) d'être digne de cette élévation, d'être prédestiné et choisi pour elle. (chapitre 15)

pour occuper la scène il faut en repousser les autres. Ce qui suppose une technique de combat spéciale. le combat que mène le danseur, Pontevin l'appelle le judo moral ; le danseur jette le gant au monde entier : qui est capable de se montrer plus moral (plus courageux, plus honnête, plus sincère, plus disposé au sacrifice, plus véridique) que lui ? Et il manie toutes les prises qui lui permettent de mettre l'autre dans une situation moralement inférieure.

Until then her view of time was the present moving forward and devouring the future; she either feared its swiftness (when she was awaiting something difficult) or rebelled at its slowness (when she was awaiting something fine). Now time has a very different look; it is no longer the conquering present capturing the future; it is the present conquered and captured and carried off by the past. She sees a young man disconnecting himself from her life and going away, forevermore out of her reach. Mesmerized, all she can do is watch this piece of her life move off; all she can do is watch it and suffer. She is experiencing a brand-new feeling called nostalgia.

Il peut arriver des situations (dans les régimes dictatoriaux, par exemple) où prendre publiquement position est dangereux ; pour le danseur ce l'est pourtant un peu moins que pour les autres, car, s'étant promené sous la lumière des projecteurs, visible de partout, il est protégé par l'attention du monde ; mais il a ses admirateurs anonymes qui, obéissant à son appel aussi splendide qu'irréfléchie, signent des pétitions, participent à des réunions interdites, manifestent dans la rue ; ceux-là seront traités sans ménagement et le danseur ne cédera jamais à la tentation sentimentale de se reprocher d'avoir causé leur malheur, sachant qu'une noble cause pèse plus que la vie d'un tel ou un tel. (chapitre 6)

Celui qui éprouve de l'aversion pour les danseurs et veut les dénigrer se heurtera toujours à un obstacle infranchissable : leur honnêteté ; car en s'exposant constamment au public, le danseur se condamne à être irréprochable ; il n'a pas conclu comme Faust un contrat avec le Diable, il l'a conclu avec l'Ange : il veut faire de sa vie une oeuvre d'art et c'est dans ce travail que l'Ange l'aide ; car, n'oublie pas, la danse est un art ! C'est dans cette obsession de voir en sa propre vie la matière d'une oeuvre d'art que se trouve la vraie essence du danseur ; il ne prêche pas la morale, il la danse ! Il veut émouvoir et éblouir le monde par la beauté de sa vie ! il est amoureux de sa vie comme un sculpteur peut être amoureux de la statue qu'il est en train de modeler." (chapitre 6)

Si un danseur a la possibilité d'entrer dans le jeu politique, il refusera ostensiblement toutes les négociations secrètes (qui sont depuis toujours le terrain de jeu de la vraie politique) en les dénonçant comme mensongères, malhonnêtes, hypocrites, sales ; il avancera ses propositions publiquement, sur une estrade, en chantant, en dansant, et appellera nommément les autres à le suivre dans son action ; j'insiste : non pas discrètement (pour donner à l'autre le temps de réfléchir, de discuter des contrepropositions) mais publiquement, et si possible par surprise : "Êtes-vous prêt tout de suite (comme moi) à renoncer à votre salaire du mois de mars au profit des enfants de Somalie ?" Surpris, les gens n'auront que deux possibilités : ou bien refuser et ainsi se discréditer en tant qu'ennemis des enfants, ou bien dire "oui" dans un terrible embarras que la caméra devra malicieusement montrer (chapitre 6)

O grau de velocidade é diretamente proporcional à intensidade do esquecimento. Desta equação podem deduzir-se diversos corolários, por exemplo o seguinte: a nossa época abandona-se ao demónio da velocidade e é por essa razão que se esquece tão facilmente de si própria. Ora, eu prefiro inverter a afirmação e dizer: a nossa época está obcecada pelo desejo de esquecimento e é para realizar esse desejo que se abandona ao demónio da velocidade; acelera o passo porque quer fazer-nos compreender que já não aspira a ser lembrada; que se sente cansada de si própria; farta de si própria; que quer soprar a chamazinha trémula da memória.

A curious alliance: the cold impersonality of technology with the flames of ecstasy. I recall an American woman from thirty years ago, with her stern, committed style, a kind of apparatchik of eroticism, who gave me a lecture (chillingly theoretical) on sexual liberation; the word that came up most often in her talk was “orgasm”; I counted: forty-three times. The religion of orgasm: utilitarianism projected into sex life; efficiency versus indolence; coition reduced to an obstacle to be got past as quickly as possible in order to reach an ecstatic explosion, the only true goal of lovemaking and of the universe.

Τα πάντα είναι κανονισμένα, κατασκευασμένα, τεχνητά, τα πάντα είναι σκηνοθετημένα, τίποτα δεν είναι ειλικρινές, ή, για να το πούμε αλλιώς, τα πάντα είναι τέχνη. Σ' αυτή την περίπτωση: τέχνη να παρατείνεις την αγωνία, κι ακόμα καλύτερα, τέχνη να μένεις όσο το δυνατόν περισσότερο σε κατάσταση ερεθισμού.

Υπάρχει κρυφός σύνδεσμος μεταξύ βραδύτητας και μνήμης, μεταξύ ταχύτητας και λήθης.

Το να είσαι εκλεκτός είναι θεολογική ιδέα, που σημαίνει: χωρίς κανένα προσόν, με υπερφυσική γνωμάτευση, με την ελεύθερη, αν όχι ιδιότροπη, βούληση του Θεού, επιλέγεσαι για κάτι ξεχωριστό και ασυνήθιστο... Το αίσθημα του εκλεκτού είναι παρόν, λόγου χάρη, σε κάθε ερωτική σχέση. Διότι ο έρωτας, εξ' ορισμού, είναι δώρο που δεν το αξίζουμε... Την αυταπάτη πώς είναι εκλεκτός ίσως την πρωτογνωρίζει ο άνθρωπος σαν τροφή, χάρη στις μητρικές φροντίδες, που τις δέχεται χωρίς να τις αξίζει, και τις διεκδικεί παρ' όλα αυτά δυναμικά. Η εκπαίδευσης θα 'πρεπε να απαλλάσσει από αυτή την αυταπάτη και να του δίνει να καταλάβει πώς όλα στη ζωή πληρώνονται.

He looks at Mama out of the corner of his eye, again surprised by how little she is. As if all of her life has been a slow process of shrinkage.

Until then her view of time was the present moving forward and devouring the future; she either feared its swiftness (when she was awaiting something difficult) or rebelled at its slowness (when she was awaiting something fine).

Es un maestro de las largas pausas. Sabe que sólo los tímidos las temen y que se precipitan, cuando no saben qué contestar, en frases apuradas que les ridiculizan

Comprende que esa impaciencia por hablar es a la vez una implacable falta de interés por escuchar

Jean-Marc watched the sand-yachts, and when he saw one heading at racing-car speed for Chantal, he frowned. An old man lay in the thing like an astro­naut in a rocket. Flat on his back like that, the man can’t see anything ahead of him! Is Chantal vigilant enough to keep clear? He railed against her, against her overly offhand nature, and quickened his pace. She turned half-way around. But she cannot have seen Jean-Marc, for her demeanour was still slow, the demeanour of a woman deep in thought and walking without looking about her. He would like to shout to her to stop being so distracted, to pay attention to those idiotic vehicles running all over the beach. Suddenly he imagines her body crushed by the sand-yacht, sprawled on the sand, she is bleeding, the sand-yacht is disappearing down the beach and he sees himself dash towards her. He is so upset by the image that he really does start shouting Chantal’s name; the wind is strong, the beach enormous, and no one can hear his voice, so he can give over to that sort of sentimental theatrics and, with tears in his eyes, shout out his anguish for her; his face clenched in a grimace of weeping, for a few seconds he is living through the horror of her death. Then, himself astounded by that curious spasm of hysteria, he saw her, in the distance, still strolling nonchalantly, peaceable, calm, pretty, infinitely touch­ing, and he grinned at the comedy of bereavement he’d just played out, smiled about it without self-reproach, because Chantal’s death has been with him ever since he began to love her.

Kadın, her türlü bayağılığın üzerinde, hor gördüğü bayağı dünyanın üzerinde bulunduğunu kanıtlamak için erkeği dizüstü çökmeye zorlayacak, erkek kendini suçlayacak, ağlayacak, kadın bu yüzden daha da rezilleşecek, onu boynuzlatacak, sadakatsizliğini teşhir edecek, ona acı çektirecek, erkek karşı koyacak, saldırganlaşıp korkunç şeyler yapmaya karar vererek kabalaşacak, bir vazo kıracak, korkunç küfürler yağdıracak, bunun üzerine kadın ağlama numaraları yapacak, onu ırz düşmanlığıyla, saldırganlıkla suçlayacak, erkek yeniden diz çökecek, yeniden ağlayacak, yeniden kendini suçlu ilan edecek, sonra kadın onun kendisiyle yatmasına izin verecek, haftalar, aylar, yıllar boyu, bu böyle sürüp gidecek, taa sonsuza kadar.

¡Cambiar el mundo! ¡Qué monstruoso propósito para Pontevin! No porque el mundo sea admirable tal como está, sino porque cuqlquier cambio conduce inevitablemente a lo peor.

La manera como se cuenta la Historia contemporánea se asemeja a un gran concierto en el que se presentaran seguidos los ciento treinta y ocho opus de Beethoven, pero tocando tan sólo los ocho primeros tiempos de cada uno de ellos. Si volviera a hacerse el mismo concierto diez años después, sólo se tocaría, de cada pieza, la primera nota, siendo, pues, ciento treinta y ocho notas durante todo el concierto, presentadas como una única melodía. Y, veinte años después, toda la música de Beethoven quedaría resumida en una única larguísima nota aguda que se asemejaría a la que oyó, infinita y muy alta, el primer día de su sordera.

Hay un vínculo secreto entre la lentitud y la memoria, entre la velocidad y el olvido. Evoquemos una situación de lo más trivial: un hombre camina por la calle. De pronto quiere recordar algo, pero el recuerdo se le escapa. En ese momento, mecánicamente, afloja el paso. Por el contrario, alguien que intenta olvidar un incidente penoso que acaba de ocurrirle acelera el paso sin darse cuenta, como si quisiera alejarse rápido de lo que, en el tiempo, se encuentra aún demasiado cercano a él

Il grado di lentezza è direttamente proporzionale all'intensità della memoria; il grado di velocità è direttamente proporzionale all'intensità dell'oblio.

L'amore è per definizione un dono non meritato; l'essere amati senza merito è la prova del vero amore.

L'origine della paura è nel futuro

Dar forma ad una durata è l'esigenza della bellezza, ma è anche quella della memoria.

Hay un vínculo secreto entre la lentitud y la memoria entre la velocidad y el olvido

...η εποχή μας παραδίδεται στον δαίμονα της ταχύτητας και γι' αυτό ξεχνάει τόσο εύκολα τον εαυτό της. Εγώ λοιπόν προτιμώ να αντιστρέψω αυτόν τον ισχυρισμό και να πω: η εποχή μας έχει κυριευθεί από την επιθυμία για λήθη και παραδίδεται στον δαίμονα της ταχύτητας ακριβώς για να εκπληρώσει αυτή την επιθυμία. Επιταχύνει το βήμα της επειδή θέλει να καταλάβουμε ότι επιθυμεί να μη την θυμόμαστε πια. Ότι έχει βαρεθεί τον εαυτό της. Έχει σιχαθεί τον εαυτό της. Ότι θέλει να σβήσει τη μικρή, τρεμάμενη φλόγα της μνήμης.

Θέλω να κοιτάξω κι άλλον τον ιππότη μου που κατευθύνεται αργά στην άμαξα. Θέλω να απολαύσω το ρυθμό των βημάτων του: όσο αυτός προχωράει, τόσο αυτά επιβραδύνονται. Σ' αυτή τη βραδύτητα νομίζω πως αναγνωρίζω ένα σημάδι ευτυχίας... Σς παρακαλώ, φίλε, να είσαι ευτυχισμένος. Έχω την αόριστη εντύπωση πως από την ικανότητα σου να είσαι ευτυχισμένος εξαρτάται και η μόνη μας ελπίδα.

La nostalgia es el sufrimiento de un corazón que se aferra al pasado, como si las sombras pudieran devolver la luz de un amor perdido

I beg you, friend, be happy. I have the vague sense that on your capacity to be happy hangs our only hope.

He understands that that impatience to speak is also an implacable uninterest in listening

He feels the touch of her hand on his cheek, or more precisely the touch of three fingertips, and the trace of it is cold, like after the touch of fog. Her caresses were always slow, calm, it used to seem to him that they were meant to prolong time. Whereas these three fingers laid briefly on his cheek were not a caress but a reminder. As if a woman snatched up by a storm, carried off by a wave, could muster just one fleeting gesture to say: ‘And yet I was here! I did pass through! Whatever happens, don’t forget me!

...Estou ao volante e, pelo retrovisor, observo um automóvel que vem atrás de mim. A luzinha da esquerda pisca e todo o automóvel emite ondas de impaciência. O condutor espera o ensejo de me ultrapassar; espreita esse momento como uma ave de rapina espreita um pardal. Véra, a minha mulher, diz-me: “Todos os cinquenta minutos morre um homem nas estradas de França. Olha para eles, para estes doidos todos que correm à nossa volta. São os mesmos que sabem mostrar-se de uma prudência extraordinária quando vêem assaltar uma velha na rua, mesmo diante dos olhos. Como é que podem não ter medo quando estão ao volante?” Que responder? Talvez o seguinte: o homem inclinado para a frente na sua motorizada só pode concentrar-se no segundo presente do seu voo; agarra-se a um fragmento do tempo cortado tanto do passado como do futuro; agarra-se à continuidade do tempo; está fora do tempo; por outras palavras, está no estado de êxtase; nesse estado, nada sabe da sua idade, nada da mulher, nada dos filhos, nada das preocupações e, portanto, não tem medo, porque a fonte do medo está no futuro, e quem se liberta do futuro nada tem a temer. A velocidade é a forma do êxtase com que a revolução técnica presenteou o homem. Ao contrário do motociclista, quem corre a pé continua presente no seu corpo, obrigado ininterruptamente a pensar nas suas bolhas, no seu ofegar; quando corre sente o seu peso, a sua idade, mais consciente do que nunca de si próprio e da sua vida. Tudo muda quando um homem delega a faculdade da velocidade numa máquina: a partir de então, o seu próprio corpo sai do jogo e ele entrega-se a uma velocidade que é incorpórea, imaterial, velocidade pura, velocidade em si mesma, velocidade êxtase. Curiosa aliança: a fria impessoalidade da técnica e as chamas do êxtase. Estou a lembrar-me dessa americana que, há trinta anos, expressão severa e entusiástica, qual apparatchik do erotismo, me deu uma aula (glacialmente teórica) sobre a libertação sexual; a palavra que se repetia mais vezes no seu discurso era a palavra orgasmo; contei: quarenta e três vezes. O culto do orgasmo; o utilitarismo puritano projectado na vida sexual; a eficácia contra a ociosidade; a redução do coito a um obstáculo que se deve ultrapassar o mais depressa possível para se chegar a uma explosão extática, único verdadeiro alvo do amor e do universo. Porque terá desaparecido o prazer da lentidão? Ah, onde estão os deambuladores de outrora? Onde estão esses heróis indolentes das canções populares, esses vagabundos que preguiçam de moinho em moinho e dormem ao relento? Terão desaparecido com os caminhos campestres, com os prados e as clareiras, com a natureza? Há um provérbio checo que descreve a sua ociosidade por meio de uma metáfora: contemplam as janelas de Deus. Quem contempla as janelas de Deus não se aborrece; é feliz. No nosso mundo, a ociosidade transformou-se em desocupação, o que é uma coisa muitíssimo diferente: o desocupado sente-se frustrado, aborrece-se, procura constantemente o movimento que lhe faz falta. Olho para o retrovisor: sempre o mesmo automóvel que não consegue ultrapassar-me por causa da circulação em sentido contrário. Ao lado do condutor, está sentada uma mulher; porque é que o homem não lhe conta alguma coisa engraçada? Porque não lhe põe a palma da mão no joelho? Em vez disso, amaldiçoa o automobilista que, à sua frente, não vai suficientemente depressa, e também a mulher não pensa em tocar com a mão o condutor, conduz mentalmente ao mesmo tempo que ele e como ele amaldiçoa-me. E eu penso nessa outra viagem de Paris para um solar no campo, que teve lugar há mais de duzentos anos, na viagem da Senhora de T. e do jovem cavaleiro que a acompanhava. É a primeira vez que estão tão perto um do outro, e a indizível atmosfera sensual que os envolve nasce justamente da lentidão do ritmo: balouçados pelo movimento da carruagem, os dois corpos tocam-se, primeiro sem o saberem, depois sabendo-o, e a história principia.

Then, back in our room, I turn on the television for a moment. There, children. The children are thin, exhausted, without the strength to wave away the flies walking about on their faces. Vera says to me: "Aren't there any old people dying in that country as well?" No, no, what was so interesting about that famine, what made it unique among the millions of famines that have occurred on this earth, was that it cut down only children. We never saw an adult suffering on the screen, even though we watched the news every day, precisely to confirm that unprecedented fact.

In this book time thus flows in a tempo opposite that of real life: the tempo slows down as the years go by.

La velocidad es directamente proporcional al olvido

,,Omul care aleargă își simte greutatea, vârsta, este mai conștient ca oricând de sine și de curgerea vieții sale.

Sa che se la insulta è perché vuole essere ascoltato, guardato, preso in considerazione. [...] Se lo amasse, anche soltanto un poco, proverebbe tenerezza di fronte a quell'esplosione di disperata impotenza.