Pascal Mercier Quotes

We leave something of ourselves behind when we leave a place, we stay there, even though we go away. And there are things in us that we can find again only by going back there.

A feeling is no longer the same when it comes the second time. It dies through the awareness of its return. We become tired and weary of our feelings when they come too often and last too long.

Life is not what we live; it is what we imagine we are living.

Given that we can live only a small part of what there is in us -- what happens with the rest?

In the years afterward, I fled whenever somebody began to understand me. That has subsided. But one thing remained: I don't want anybody to understand me completely. I want to go through life unknown. The blindness of others is my safety and my freedom.

To understand yourself: Is that a discovery or a creation?

Sometimes, we are afraid of something because we're afraid of something else.

Human beings can't bear silence. It would mean that they would bear themselves.

To live for the moment: it sounds so right and so beautiful. But the more I want to, the less I understand what it means.

So, the fear of death might be described as the fear of not being able to become whom one had planned to be.

That words could cause something in the world, make someone move or stop, laugh or cry: even as a child he had found it extraordinary and it never stopped impressing him. How did words do that? Wasn't it like magic?

Isn't it true that it's not people who meet, but rather the shadows cast by their imaginations?

I love tunnels. They 're the symbol of hope: sometime it will be bright again. If by chance it is not night.

Loyalty... A will, a decision, a resolution of the soul.

There were people who read and there were the others. Whether you were the a reader or a non-reader was soon apparent. There was no greater distinction between people.

When we talk about ourselves, about others, or simply about things, we want- it could be said – to reveal ourselves in our words: We want to show what we think and feel. We let other have a glimpse into our soul.

Then there was a silence he had never before experienced: in it, you could hear the years.

I am still there, at that distant place in time, I never left it, but live expanded in the past, or out of it.

SOLIDAO, LONELINESS. What is it that we call loneliness. It can't simply be the absence of others, you can be alone and not lonely, and you can be among people and yet be lonely. So what is it? ... it isn't only that others are there, that they fill up the space next to us. But even when they celebrate us or give advice in a friendly conversation, clever, sensitive advice: even then we can be lonely. So loneliness is not something simply connected with the presence of others or with what they do. Then what? What on earth?

It wasn't only that you didn't see him anymore, meet him anymore. You saw his absence and encountered it as something tangible. His not being there was like the sharply outlined emptiness of a photo with a figure cut out precisely with scissors and now the missing figure is more important, more dominant than all others.

[Vanity's] an unrecognized form of stupidity... you have to forget the cosmic meaninglessness of all our acts to be able to be vain and that’s a glaring form of stupidity.

But when we set out to understand somebody’s inside? Is that a trip that ever ends? Is the soul a place of facts? Or are the alleged facts only the deceptive shadows of our stories?

We are all patchwork, and so shapeless and diverse in composition that each bit, each moment, plays its own game. And there is as much difference between us and ourselves as between us and others

I would not like to live in a world without cathedrals. I need their beauty and grandeur. I need their imperious silence. I need it against the witless bellowing of the barracks yard and the witty chatter of the yes-men. I want to hear the rustling of the organ, this deluge of ethereal notes. I need it against the shrill farce of marches.

Our lives are rivers, gliding free to that unfathomed, boundless sea, the silent grave!

Why do we feel sorry for people who can't travel? Because, unable to expand externally, they are not able to expand internally either, they can't multiply and so they are deprived of the possibility of undertaking expansive excursions in themselves and discovering who and what else they could have become.

It’s not the pain and the wounds that are the worst... The worst is the humiliation.

What did I know of your fantasies? Why do we know so little about the fantasies of our parents? What do we know of somebody if we know nothing of the images passed to him by his imagination?

Disappointment is considered bad. A thoughtless prejudice. How, if not through disappointment, should we discover what we have expected and hoped for? And where, if not in this discovery, should self-knowledge lie? So how could one gain clarity about oneself without disappointment? ... One could have the hope that he would become more real by reducing expectations, shrink to a hard, reliable core and thus be immune to the pain of disappointment. But how would it be to lead a life that banished every long, bold expectation, a life where there were only banal expectations like "the bus is coming"?

Don't waste your time, do something worthwhile with it." But what can that mean: worthwhile? Finally to start realizing long-cherished wishes. To attack the error that there will always be time for it later....Take the long-dreamed-of trip, learn this language, read those books, buy yourself this jewelry, spend a night in that famous hotel. Don't miss out on yourself. Bigger things are also part of that: to give up the loathed profession, break out of a hated milieu. Do what contributes to making you more genuine, moves you closer to yourself.

Think that you have to die someday, maybe this morning.” “I think of it all the time, and so I play hooky from the office and let myself bask in the sun.

To stand by yourself -- that was also part of dignity. That way, a person could get through a public flaying with dignity. Galileo. Luther. Even somebody who admitted his guilt and resisted the temptation to deny it. Something politicians couldn't do. Honesty, the courage for honesty. With others and yourself.

You can never have for yourself someone who isn't on good terms with himself.

I would not like to live in a world without cathedrals. I need their beauty and grandeur. I need them against the vulgarity of the world.

Kitsch is the most pernicious of all prisons. The bars are covered with the gold of simplistic, unreal feelings, so that you take them for the pillars of a palace.

NOBREZA SILENCIOSA. SILENT NOBILITY. It is a mistake to believe that the crucial moments of a life when its habitual direction changes forever must be loud and shrill dramatics, washed away by fierce internal surges. This is a kitschy fairy tale started by boozing journalists, flashbulb-seeking filmmakers and authors whose minds look like tabloids. In truth, the dramatics of a life-determining experience are often unbelievably soft. It has so little akin to the bang, the flash, of the volcanic eruption that, at the moment it is made, the experience is often not even noticed. When it deploys its revolutionary effect and plunges a life into a brand-new light giving it a brand-new melody, it does that silently and in this wonderful silence resides its special nobility.

We are stratified creatures, creatures full of abysses, with a soul of inconstant quicksilver, with a mind whose color and shape change as in a kaleidoscope that is constantly shaken.

Warum bedauern wir Leute, die nicht reisen können? Weil sie sich, indem sie sich äußerlich nicht ausbreiten können, auch innerlich nicht auszudehnen vermögen, sie können sich nicht vervielfältigen, und so ist ihnen die Möglichkeit genommen, weitläufige Ausflüge in sich selbst zu unternehmen und zu entdecken, wer und was anderes sie auch hätten werden können.

How would it be after the last sentence? The last sentence he had always feared and from the middle of a book, he had always been tormented by the thought that there would inevitably be a last sentence.

Each of us is several, is man, is a profusion of selves. So that the self who disdains his surroundings is not the same as the self who suffers or takes joy in them. In the colony of our being there are many species of people who think and feel in different ways.

What separates me from my present is like a fine mist, an intangible veil, an invisible wall. They don't put up the slightest resistance. Nothing would shatter if I were to walk through it. Because there is actually nothing at all between me and the world. A single step would be enough. Why didn't I take it long ago?

Sleepless people were bound by a wordless solidarity.

For that is the meaning of a farewell in the full, important sense of the word: that the two people, because they part, come to an understanding of how they have seen and experienced each other. What succeeded between them and what failed. That takes fearlessness: you have to be able to endure the pain of dissonance. It is also about acknowledging what was impossible. Parting is also something you do with yourself: to stand by yourself under the look of the other. The cowardice of a farewell resides in the transfiguration: in the attempt to bathe what was in a golden light and deny the dark. What you forfeit in that is nothing less than the acknowledgement of your self in those features produced by darkness.

AS SOMBRAS DA ALMA. THE SHADOWS OF THE SOUL. The stories others tell about you and the stories you tell about yourself: which come closer to the truth? Is it so clear that they are your own? Is one an authority on oneself? But that isn't the question that concerns me. The real question is: In such stories, is there really a difference between true and false? In stories about the outside, surely. But when we set out to understand someone on the inside? Is that a trip that ever comes to an end? Is the soul a place of facts? Or are the alleged facts only the deceptive shadows of our stories?

...the dreamlike, bombastic wish to stand once again at that point in my life and be able to take a completely different direction than the one that has made me who I am now... To sit once more on the warm moss and hold the cap - it's the absurd wish to go back behind myself in time and take myself - the only marked by events - along on this journey.

...nicht nur in der Zeit sind wir ausgebreitet. Auch im Raum erstrecken wir uns weit über das hinaus, was sichtbar ist. Wir lassen etwas von uns zurück, wenn wir einen Ort verlassen, wir bleiben dort, obgleich wir wegfahren. Und es gibt Dinge an uns, die wir nur dadurch wiederfinden können, dass wir dorthin zurückkehren. Was könnte aufregender sein, als ein unterbrochenes Leben mit all seinen Versprechen wieder aufzunehmen?

Boundless openness is simply not possible. It is beyond our power. The loneliness of having to conceal, it also exists.

Getting to know a city through the books in it—he had always done that.

Because the one who wishes it – isn’t the one who, still untouched by the future, stands at the crossroads. Instead, it is the one marked by the future become past who wants to go back to the past, to revoke the irrevocable. And would he want to revoke it if he hadn’t suffered it?

It is a mistake to believe that the decisive moments of a life when its direction changes for ever must be marked by sentimental loud and shrill dramatics… In truth, the dramatic moments of a life-determining experience are often unbelievably low-key. It has so little in common with the bang, the flash, or the volcanic eruption that, at the moment it happens, the experience is often not even noticed. When it unfolds its revolutionary effect, and ensures that a life is revealed in a brand-new light, with a brand-new melody, it does that silently and in this wonderful silence resides its special nobility.

Sometimes I go to the beach and stand facing the wind, which I wish were icy, colder than we know it in these parts. I wish it would blow all the hackneyed words, all the insipid habits of language out of me so that I could come back with a cleansed mind, cleansed of the banalities of the same talk.

Encounters between people, it often seems to me, are like trains passing at breakneck speed in the night. We cast fleeting looks at the passengers sitting behind dull glass in dim light, who disappear from our field of vision almost before we perceive them. Was it really a man and a woman who flashed past like phantoms, who came out of nothing into the empty dark, without meaning or purpose? Did they know each other? Did they talk? Laugh? Cry? People will say: That's how it is when strangers pass one another in rain and wind and there might be something in the comparison. But we sit opposite people for longer, we eat and work together, lie next to each other, live under the same roof. Where is the haste? Yet everything that gives the illusion of permanence, familiarity, and intimate knowledge: isn't it a deception invented to reassure, with which we try to conceal and ward off the flickering, disturbing haste because it could be impossible to live with all the time. Isn't every exchange of looks between people like the ghostly brief meeting of eyes between travellers passing one another, intoxicated by the inhuman speed and the shock of air pressure that makes everything shudder and clatter? Don't our looks bounce off others, as in the hasty encounter of the night, and leave us with nothing but conjectures, slivers of thoughts and imagined qualities? Isn't it true that it's not people who meet, but rather the shadows cast by their imaginations?

One who would really like to know himself would have to be a restless, fanatical collector of disappointments, and seeking disappointing experiences must be like an addiction, the all-determining addiction of his life, for it would stand so clearly before his eyes that disappointment is not a hot, destroying poison, but rather a cool calming balm that opens our eyes to the real contours of ourselves.

Jak se člověk rozloučí s někým, kdo mu ovlivnil život jako nikdo jiný?

اگر این‌طور باشد که ما فقط یک بخش از آن‌چه را زندگی می‌کنیم که در وجود ماست، پس بقیه‌اش چه می‌شود؟

De werkelijke regisseur van ons leven is het toeval - een regisseur vol wreedheid, barmhartigheid en verwarrende charme.

Of the thousand experiences we have, we find language for one at most and even this one merely by chance and without the care it deserves.

أحيانًا نشعر بالخوف من شيءٍ ما لأننا نخاف من شيء آخر

Pokud je to tak, že můžeme žít jen malou část z toho, co je v nás - co se stane se zbytkem?

Proč mě stopy minulosti tak rozesmutňují, i když jsou to stopy něčeho veselého?

I am certain that all human action is an extremely imperfect, utterly helpless expression of a hidden life of unimagined depths that presses to the surface without ever being able to reach it.

Dass Worte etwas bewirkten, dass sie jemanden in Bewegung setzen oder aufhalten, zum Lachen oder Weinen bringen konnten: Schon als Kind hatte er es rätselhaft gefunden, und es hatte nie aufgehört, ihn zu beeindrucken. Wie machten die Worte das? War es nicht wie Magie?

Hij hield van Latijnse zinnen omdat ze de rust in zich borgen van alles wat verleden tijd was geworden. Omdat die zinnen je niet dwongen er iets over te zeggen. Omdat ze taal waren die aan al het gepraat voorbij was.

O VENENO ARDENTE DO DESGOSTO. THE WHITE HOT POISON OF ANGER. When others make us angry at them- at their shamelessness, injustice, inconsideration- then they exercise power over us, they proliferate and gnaw at our soul, then anger is like a white-hot poison that corrods all mild, noble and balanced feelings and robs us of sleep. Sleepless, we turn on the light and are angry at the anger that has lodged like a succubus who sucks us dry and debilitates us. We are not only furious at the damage, but also that it develops in us all by itself, for while we sit on the edge of the bed with aching temples, the distant catalyst remains untouched by the corrosive force of the anger that eats at us. On the empty internal stage bathed in the harsh light of mute rage, we perform all by ourselves a drama with shadow figures and shadow words we hurl against enemies in helpless rage we feel as icy blazing fire in our bowels. And the greater our despair that is only a shadow play and not a real discussion with the possibility of hurting the other and producing a balance of suffering, the wilder the poisonous shadows dance and haunt us even in the darkest catacombs of our dreams. (We will turn the tables, we think grimly, and all night long forge words that will produce in the other the effect of a fire bomb so that now he will be the one with the flames of indignation raging inside while we, soothed by schadenfreude, will drink our coffee in cheerful calm.) What could it mean to deal appropriately with anger? We really don't want to be soulless creatures who remain thoroughly indifferent to what they come across, creatures whose appraisals consist only of cool, anemic judgments and nothing can shake them up because nothing really bothers them. Therefore, we can't seriously wish not to know the experience of anger and instead persist in an equanimity that wouldn't be distinguished from tedious insensibility. Anger also teaches us something about who we are. Therefore this is what I'd like to know: What can it mean to train ourselves in anger and imagine that we take advantage of its knowledge without being addicted to its poison? We can be sure that we will hold on to the deathbed as part of the last balance sheet- and this part will taste bitter as cyanide- that we have wasted too much, much too much strength and time on getting angry and getting even with others in a helpless shadow theater, which only we, who suffered impotently, knew anything about. What can we do to improve this balance sheet? Why did our parents, teachers and other instructors never talk to us about it? Why didn't they tell something of this enormous significance? Not give us in this case any compass that could have helped us avoid wasting our soul on useless, self-destructive anger?

I often feel an aversion, even disgust at the same words written and spoken over and over – at the same expressions, phrases, and metaphors repeated. And the worst is, when I listen to myself I have to admit that I too endlessly repeat the same things. They’re so horribly frayed and threadbare, these words, worn out by constant overuse. Do they still have any meaning?

Can God create a stone He couldn’t lift? If not, then He isn’t almighty; if yes, then He isn’t either, for now there is a stone He cannot lift.

Но я, какой я есть, это чистая случайность

... тя свири така, сякаш строи имагинерна катедрала от звуци, в която някой ден би могла да се подслони, когато вече няма да е в състояние да понася живота.

İçimizde olanın ancak küçük bir kısmını yaşayabiliyorsak – gerisine ne oluyor?

Given that we can live only a small part of what there is in us – what happens to the rest?

We are stratified creatures, full of abysses, with souls of quicksilver, with minds whose colour and shape change as in a kaleidoscope that is constantly shaken.

The real director of our life is accident – a director full of cruelty, compassion and bewitching charm.

Postoje ljudi koji čitaju i postoje oni drugi. Je li netko čitatelj ili ne-čitatelj - to se brzo otkrije. Među ljudima nema veće razlike od te. Ljudi bi se čudili kad bi to tvrdio, a neki bi i odmahivali glavom zbog toliko zadrtosti. Ali bilo je to tako. Gregorius je to znao. Znao.

I revere the word of God for I love its poetic force. I loathe the word of God for I hate its cruelty. The love is a difficult love for it must incessantly separate the luminosity of the words and the violent verbal subjugation by a complacent God. The hatred is a difficult hatred for how can you allow yourself to hate words that are part of the melody of life in this part of the world? Words that taught us early on what reverence is?

Jij en ik, we zijn beiden bewonderaars van Marcus Aurelius en je zult je deze passage in zijn Overpeinzingen herinneren: 'Zondig gerust, zondig tegen jezelf en doe jezelf geweld aan, mijn ziel; maar later zul je niet meer de tijd hebben om jezelf te achten en te respecteren. Want één leven slechts, een enkel leven, heeft eenieder.

Should we be grateful for the protection that guards us from the strangeness of one another? And for the freedom it makes possible? How would it be if we confronted each other unprotected by the double refraction represented by the interpreted body? If, because nothing separating and adulterating stood between us, we tumbled into each other?

In intimacy, we are clasped into one another, and the invisible bonds are liberating shackles. this clasping is imperious: it demands exclusivity. to share is to betray. But we want to love and touch not only one single person. What to do? control the various intimacies? Strict bookkeeping of subjects, words, gestures? Mutual knowledge and secrets? It would be a silent trickling poison.

He had walked on the beach and wished for icy winds to sweep away everything that sounded like mere linguistic habit, a malicious kind of habit that prevented thinking by producing the illusion that it had already taken place and found its conclusion in the hollow words.

There are things that are too big for us humans : Pain,loneliness,and death, but also beauty, publicity and happiness. For them we created religion. What happens when we lose it? Those things are still too big for us. What is left for us is the poetry of the individual life.

من بين آلاف التجارب التي نخوض غمارها هناك تجربة واحدة لا غير يمكن أن تُسعفنا في نقلها الكلمات. وهذه التجربة اليتيمة لا تُقال إلا مصادفةً وبكل بساطةٍ مهما أوليناها من عنايةٍ وحرص. ومن بين كل التجارب الخرساء المستعصية على القول، تكمن تلك التي تهب لحياتنا، خلسة،ً شكلها و لونها و لحنها معًا.

Грешка е, безумно насилствен акт е да се концентрираме върху Тук и Сега в убеждението си, че така обхващаме същественото. Въпросът е в това да се движим уверено и невъзмутимо, с уместно чувство за хумор и уместна меланхоличност из разпрострения във времето и пространството вътрешен пейзаж, който сме ние.

I start trembling at the very thought of the unplanned and unknown, but inevitable and unstoppable force with which parents leave traces in their children that, like traces of branding, can never be erased. The outlines of parental will and fear are written with a white-hot stylus in the souls of the children who are helpless and ignorant of what is happening to them. We need a whole life to find and decipher the branded text and we can never be sure we have understood it.

okuyan insanlar vardı, bir de ötekiler. Birinin okuyan mı okumayan mı olduğu hemen anlaşılıyordu. İnsanlar arasında undan daha büyük bir fark yoktu.

Sevginin tahammül edebileceği sınırlama ne kadardır? Ona hala sevgi denebilmesi için?

Bakışlar tuhaf, uçucu şeylerdir; ancak biri onları okursa vardırlar; o zaman da bütün sözcüklerden daha konuşkan, daha kesindirler.

..buluştu gözlerimiz, birbirine gömüldü. Bir an sanki yok oldum. Sadece sen vardın.

Bir düşe benzeyen bu şimdiki zamanda, farkına varmasam da, senin eski yüzünü beklemediğim ve yenisini görünce dehşete düşmediğim bir tek anım bile olmadı.

Jména jsou neviditelné stíny, do nichž nás ti druzí odívají a my je.

Jsme vrstevnaté bytosti, jsme bytosti plné propastných hloubek, s duší z neklidné rtuti, s citem, jehož barva a tvar se proměňuje jako v kaleidoskopu, jímž bez ustání třepeme.

Bezmezná otevřenost prostě není možná. Je nad naše síly. Osamělost z nutnosti zamlčovat, to taky existuje.

Var det möjligt att det bästa sättet att få grepp om sig själv bestod i att lära känna och förstå en annan människa?

إذا كانت الدكتاتورية حدثا فالثورة واجب

They aren't texts, Gregorius. What people say aren't texts. They simply talk.

Bütün düşünceler ve duygular geçicidir, kendileriyle ilgisi olmayan pek çok şeyden etkilenirler; geçici bir düşünceden ya da duygudan, başka geçici düşünceler ve duygulardan başka bir şey çıkmaz.

İnsanın kelimelere döktüğü şey, şimdiye kadar olduğu gibi hayatını sürdürür mü? Yoksa sözlerle sessizce meşgul olmak hayatı değiştirmenin en etkili yolu mu- en şiddetli patlamadan daha mı etkili?

Iemand zou de hoop kunnen koesteren dat hij door zijn verwachtingen te reduceren werkelijker zou kunnen worden, dat hij zichzelf zou kunnen beperken tot een harde, betrouwbare kern en daarmee immuun zou worden voor de pijn van de teleurstelling. Maar hoe zou het zijn om een leven te leiden dat zich verre houdt van grootse, onbescheiden verwachtingen, een leven waarin alleen nog banale verwachtingen bestaan, zoals de verwachting dat de bus komt?

Lea lasciò andare il cane, inciampò nel guinzaglio, spalancò le braccia, il padre doveva essere stato colto da un senso di lacerazione vedendo il gesto implorante e colmo di struggente desiderio della figlia che non sapeva se entrare o andarsene e faceva il folle tentativo di fuoriuscire dal tempo e da tutto quello che il tempo combina con gli esseri umani, fuoriuscire semplicemente dal tempo e continuare a vivere là dove fa meno male possibile.

هل كان بإمكان أفضل الطرق التي نسلكها للوثوق في أنفسنا أن تمرّ عبر معرفة شخص آخر وفهمه؟ رجل انقضت حياته بشكلٍ مختلف وتسير وفق منطقٍ مخالفٍ لمنطقك أنت؟ كيف للفضول الذي كان يلهمك حياةً أخرى أن يتوافق مع وعيك بأنّك كنتَ تُهدر وقتك؟

..son anda bu şefkatli bakışın ne kadar uzaktan geldiğini anladım. Şu anda bir hedefi yoktu o bakışın, hiçbir yere ulaşmaya çalışmıyordu. Gerçek ve içinde yaşadığımız ana ait bir bakış olmaktan çok bir bakışın anısıydı, aslında bir bakışın alıntısıydı sadece.

But the light allowed no temptation to turn back. Its glow made the whole past into something very distant, almost unreal, the will lost every shadow of the past under its luminosity, and the only possibility was to depart into the future whatever it might consist of.

Kelimelerde sahtekarlık yaparak huzursuzluk yaratmak ustalık isteyen bir sanattır. Sahtekarlık, inanılır seviyede olmalıdır, kelimelerle oynayarak karşınızdakini kışkırtıp konuşmayı dramatik bir doruğa ulaştırmak istiyorsanız bunu temkinli bir şekilde, ağır ağır sağlamalısınız.

The stories others tell about you and the stories you tell about yourself: which come closer to the truth? Is it so clear that they are your own? Is one an authority on oneself? but that really isn't the question that concerns me. The real question is: In such stories, is there really a difference between true and false? In stories about the outside, surely. But when we set out to understand someone on the inside? Is that a trip that ever comes to an end? Is the soul a place of facts? Or are the alleged facts only the deceptive shadows of our stories?

Människor ser man inte så som man ser hus, träd och stenar. Man ser dem i en förväntan att kunna möta dem på ett visst sätt och därigenom kunna göra dem till ett stycke av sitt eget inre. Inbillningskraften formar dem så att de passar in i ens egna önskningar och förhoppningar...

Bir insan bunca yıl bekleyerek ve ruhunda hiçbir şey değişmeden yaşamaya devam edemez, diye düşündüm. Birkaç adım ötede seninle hiç değişmemiş olarak karşılaşmak - bu bana o anda, uzaklardayken tutunduğum ve şimdi, tam da gerçekleşecekken, yıkılan umarsız bir yanılsama gibi geldi.

Karşısındaki kişi bekleneni yapmadığı ve onun ne yapabileceğini sadece tahmin edebildiği için beklentisi boşa çıkmış birinin yüzü hep biraz budala görünür, sahibi kaslarını hangi beklentinin çevresinde öbeklemesi gerektiği hakkında hiçbir şey bilmediği için huzursuzdur,çarpılabilir.

Belli bir şey düşünür düşünmez paniğe kapılacağını bilirsin, o düşünceyi uygulamak için her şeyin elinin altında olduğunu bilirsin ve her şeyin geçeceği umuduyla, aslında istemeden, aptal ve sağır gibi davranırsın, nasıl geçeceğini bilmezsin, gerçekten inanmazsın da, ama inanırmış gibi yaparsın.

What else? Was this what came from thoughts of time running out and death: that all of a sudden you didn’t know anymore what you wanted? That you didn’t know your own will anymore? That you lost the obvious familiarity with your own wishes? And in this way became strange and a problem to yourself?

Why do we feel sorry for people who can’t travel? Because, unable to expand externally, they are not able to expand internally either, they can’t multiply and so they are deprived of the possibility of undertaking expansive excursions in themselves and discovering who and what else they could have become.

Seni nasıl gördüğümü gösteren, bizi de nasılsak öyle olduğunu sandığım şekilde birlikte gösteren kareleri peş peşe oynatmak isterdim karşında. Çünkü (senden olmasa da) senin sayende bir şey öğrendim ben: Tıpkı senin kelimelerinin sık sık olduğu gibi kesin, inandırıcı ve tatlı olsalar da kelimelere güvenmemeyi.

Sen bir kumarbazsın, Patrice. Rulet ya da poker oynamıyorsun. İnsanlarla oynuyorsun. Onlardan yararlanmak için değil, onlara saygu duymadığın için de değil. Gücünü kullanmak da değil arzun. Sen bir ilişkinin sınırlarını yoklamaktan kendini alamıyorsun, o sınırları aşıyor ve bu yüzden de bir felakete neden oluyorsun.

We can be sure that we will hold on to the deathbed as part of the last balance sheet – and this part will taste bitter as cyanide – that we have wasted too much, much too much strength and time on getting angry and getting even with others in a helpless shadow theater, which only we, who have suffered importantly, knew anything about ~ Night Train to Lisbon

Има нещо странно в това желание, то има привкус на парадоксалност и логическа чудатост. Понеже онзи , който го желае, не е онзи, който все още недокоснат от бъдещето, е изправен на кръстопът. По- скоро е белязаният от изброденоти и превърнало се в минало бъдеще, който желае да се върне назад, за да отнемени неотменимото . И щеше ли да желае да го променя, ако не беше го изтърпял?

Birlikteliğimiz, diye düşündüm sonradan, her şeyi engelleyen bir filtre gibiydi. O filtre, gerçek hayatta olduğu gibi filmdeki görüntülere de biriyle paylaşılanın özelliğini katmıştı, bu özellik insanı bağımlı yapabilir ama o görüntülerin dolaysızlığının ve o anın bir kısmını da eksiltirdi; insan bu anın tadını ancak yalnızken alabilirdi, çünkü yalnız olmak bir şeyi yaşamanın gereklerindendir.

Yakınlığımızı, her ne pahasına olursa olsun sözcüklerden uzak tutmamızın nedeni buydu sanırım. Çünkü sözcükler bu yakınlığı sorgulatabilirdi. Farkına varamadığımız şey, efendisi olduğumuz sözsüzlüğün bizi tutsak eden bir dilsizliğe dönüşmesiydi. Şimdi yaptığımız, bu dilsizliğe bir son vermek, ikimiz de kendi bulunduğumuz yerden. Ellerimiz konusunda başardığımız şeyi ruhlarımız konusunda da başarabilmemiz için.

...de angst betrof niet die nieuwe zekerheid maar dat waaruit de zekerheid bestond: de weliswaar pas toekomstige maar toch nu al vaststaande onvolledigheid van zijn leven die nu al voelbaar was als een gebrek dat, door zijn omvang, zekerheid van binnenuit in angst veranderde. (...) Of gaat het ons om de behoefte voldoende dingen te hebben beleefd om over je leven te kunnen vertellen alsof het een afgerond geheel is?

Extortion through trust. "Patients confided the most intimate things to him, and also the most dangerous," said Adriana. "Politically dangerous, I mean. And then they expected him to divulge something too. So they wouldn't have to feel naked. He hated that. He hated it from the bottom of his heart. I don't want anybody to expect anything of me, he said then and stamped his foot. And why the devil is it so hard to keep my distance?

Ana babaların çocuklarında yanık izi gibi asla silinmeyecek izler bıraktıkları planlanmamış ve bilinmedik, ama yine de kaçınılmaz ve karşı konulmaz şiddeti düşünmek bile ürpertiyor beni. Ana babaların arzularının ve korkularının şekilleri, yakıcı bir kalemle, güçsüz ve başlarına ne geldiğini hiç bilmeyen küçüklerin ruhlarına kazınır. Ruhlara dağlanmış o metni bulmak ve ne yazıldığını sökmek için bir ömür harcarız, onu anladığımıza da asla emin olamayız.

Door intimiteit zijn we met elkaar verbonden en de onzichtbare banden zijn bevrijdende boeien. De verbondenheid is gebiedend: ze vereist exclusiviteit. Delen is verraden. Maar het is niet zo dat we slechts een enkele persoon mogen liefhebben, en aanraken. Wat te doen? Regie voeren over de verschillende intimiteiten? Een penibele boekhouding voeren over onderwerpen, woorden, gebaren? Over gedeelde kennis en over geheimen? Dat zou geruisloos druppelend gif zijn.

You and I are both admirers of Marcus Aurelius, and you will remember this passage in his Meditations: ‘Do wrong to thyself, do wrong to thyself, my soul; but later thou wilt no longer have the opportunity of respecting and honouring thyself. For every man has but one life. But yours is nearly finished, though in it you had no regard for yourself but placed thy felicity in the souls of others … But those who do not observe the impulses of their own minds must of necessity be unhappy.

Many a teacher was afraid when Amadeu's concentrated look fell on him. Not that it was a rejecting, provoking or belligerent look. But it gave the explainer exactly one chance to get it right. If you made a mistake or showed uncertainty, his look wasn't lurking or contemptuous, you couldn't even read disappointment in it, no , he simply averted his eyes, didn't wanted to make you feel it, was polite and friendly as he left. But it was precisely this tangible desire not to would that was destructive.

Zaman geçti ve öylesine geçerken -ben istesem de istemesem de- sensiz yeni bir gerçeklik yarattı. Kendi içimde, senin hiç bilmediğin şeylere bağlanmayı denedim. Önce onların sayılarının az olduğunu ve epeyce aramam gerekeceğini düşündüm. Ama zaman geçtikçe senden sakladığım düşüncelerin ve duyguların ne kadar çok olduğunu fark edip şaşırdım, bunlar senin birliktelik ve uyum arayışınla hiç temas etmemişlerdi. Kasıtlı olarak saklamamıştım onları. Saklamak seni kandırmak anlamına gelirdi, böyle bir şey ise düşünülemezdi.

Aradan onca yıl geçti ama hala içini okuyabiliyorum. Eskiden, böyle yaptığımda, yüzünde hep sevinçle dehşet karışımı bir şaşkınlık belirirdi. Bu dehşet, aramızda bir mesafe yaratabilir, sınır koymak istediğine işaret edebilirdi. Ama sen kendi duyduğun dehşetin farkında değil gibiydin, ya da ayıran bir şey olduğu için kabul etmek istemiyordun. Ve ilk fırsatta, senin de benim içimi okuyabildiğini göstermeye çalışırdın. Çoğu kez bunu başarırdın da. Ama bazen ve gitgide sıklaşan bir tempoda, benim içimi değil, bendeki senin içini okuyordun.

Hayal, harika ve değerli bir şeydir ve sen de buna bolca sahipsin, pek çok kişiden daha çok. Ama sahip olduğunu bu yetiyi dikkatli kullanmalısın. Canın ne kadar isterse kafanda bir şeyler kur. Ama senden gerçek beklenirken yapma bunu. O zaman kafada kurmak, yalan söylemek anlamına gelir. Karşındakilerin gerçek üzerinde ne kadar hakları olduğunu bilmek kolay değildir. Bunu bana hayat öğretti. Bazı insanlar da yalan söylenmesini hak ederler. Ama bu bir kural değildir. Şunu da unutma: İnsanlar kandırılmaktan hoşlanmazlar. İntikamları acı olabilir.

After a while, he understood that he was experiencing a great liberation; the liberation from his self-imposed limitation, from a slowness and heaviness expressed in his name and had been expressed in the slow measured steps of his father walking ponderously from one room of the museum to another; liberation from an image of himself in which, even when he wasn’t reading, he was someone bending myopically over dusty books; an image he hadn’t drawn systematically, but that had grown slowly and imperceptibly; the image of Mundus, which bore not only his own handwriting, but also the handwriting of many others who had found it pleasant and convenient to be able to hold on to this silent museum-like figure and rest in it.

...senin üzerinde bırakmasını istediğim etkiyi sözlerimin bırakmasına izin ver lütfen. O sözleri direnmeden benimsemeni ve onlara, senin bana üstün geldiğin bir oyundaki hamlelermiş gibi davranmamanı istiyorum. Sözlerim senin içine, durgun bir göle düşercesine düşmeliler, halka halka yayılmalı, dalgalar yaratmalılar ve bütün bunlar gerçekleşirken senin hiçbir şeye müdahale etmemeni, yanıtını sadece sözlü vermekte değil içinden vermekte de aceleci davranmamanı, olanların etkisi yayılıp sen söylediklerimi gerçekten anlayana kadar beklemeni istiyorum. Yapacak mısın bunu Patrice? Benim için yapacak mısın? Bir kez, bir tek kez seni bir kalkan gibi koruyan söz ustalığını kenara itecek, incitilmene ve eğer kaçınılmazsa da yaralanmana izin verecek misin? Birbirimizden kurtulabilmemiz için?

Wir lassen etwas von uns zurück, wenn wir einen Ort verlassen, wir bleiben dort, obgleich wir wegfahren. Und es gibt Dinge an uns, die wir nur dadurch wiederfinden können, daß wir dorthin zurückkehren. Wir fahren an uns heran, reisen zu uns selbst, wenn uns das monotone Klopfen der Räder einem Ort entgegenträgt, wo wir eine Wegstrecke unseres Lebens zurückgelegt haben, wie kurz sie auch gewesen sein mag. Wenn wir den Fuß zum zweiten Male auf den Bahnsteig des fremden Bahnhofs setzen, die Stimmen aus den Lautsprechern hören, die unverwechselbaren Gerüche riechen, so sind wir nicht nur an dem fernen Ort angekommen, sondern auch in der Ferne des eigenen Inneren, in einem vielleicht ganz entlegenen Winkel unserer selbst, der, wenn wir anderswo sind, ganz im Dunkeln liegt und in der Unsichtbarkeit.

Z tisíce zkušeností, které učiníme, zformulujeme do slov nejvýš jednu, a i tu spíš náhodně a bez pečlivosti, jakou by si zasloužila. Mezi všemi těmi němými zkušenostmi jsou skryty i takové, které našemu životu nepozorovaně propůjčují tvar, barvu a melodii. Když se pak jako archeologové duše k těmto pokladům obrátíme, objevíme, jak jsou matoucí. Předmět našeho pozorování odmítá klidně postát, slova sklouzávají po prožitém, a nakonec se na papíře ocitnou samé protimluvy. Dlouho jsem věřil, že je to nedostatek, něco, co je potřeba překonat. Dnes si myslím, že je to jinak: že přijmout ten zmatek představuje královskou cestu k pochopení těchto důvěrně známých a přece záhadných zkušeností. Zní to zvláštně, vlastně podivínsky, přiznávám. Ale od chvíle, odkdy to takhle vidím, mám pocit, že jsem poprvé skutečně bdělý a že jsem živý.

To be able to part from something, he thought as the train started moving, you had to confront it in a way that created internal distance. You had to turn the unspoken, diffuse self-understanding it had wrapped around you into a clarity that showed what it meant to you. And that meant it had to congeal into something with distinct contours. Something as distinct as the list of the many students who had meant more to his life than anything else. Gregorius felt as if the train, now rolling out of the railway station, was leaving a piece of him behind, as if he was marooned on an ice floe that had come loose in a mild earthquake, in an open cold sea.

The Greek had nodded, it seemed not to surprise him. Sometimes we’re afraid of something because we’re afraid of something else, he had said.

Wann war jemand er selbst? Wenn er so war wie immer? So, wie er sich selbst sah? Oder so, wie er war, wenn die glühende Lava der Gedanken und Gefühle alle Lügen, Masken und Selbsttäuschungen unter sich begrub? Oft waren es die andere, die beklagten, daß jemand nicht mehr er selbst sei. Vielleicht hieß es dann in Wirklichkeit: Er ist nicht mehr so, wie wir ihn gerne hätten? War das Ganze also am Ende nicht viel mehr als eine Art Kampfparole gegen eine drohende Erschütterung des Gewohnten, getarnt als Kummer und Besorgnis um das angebliche Wohl des anderen?

Lezen en schrijven deed hij 's nachts, als hij niet kon slapen. Of wie weet kon hij niet slapen omdat hij het gevoeld had te moeten lezen en schrijven en nadenken.

Amadeu. O sacerdote ateu. The godless priest

Can there be anything more absurd than this: to be moved by a wish that has no conceivable object?

Ik wil niet in een wereld zonder kathedralen leven. Ik heb hun schoonheid en verhevenheid nodig. Ik heb ze nodig als verzet tegen de platvloersheid van de wereld. Ik wil opkijken naar hun stralende kerkramen en me laten verblinden door hun betoverende kleuren. Ik heb hun glans nodig, hun gebiedend zwijgen. Die heb ik nodig als verzet tegen de smerige eenheidskleur van uniformen. Ik wil mijzelf hullen in de bittere kou die in de kerken hangt. (...) Een wereld zonder die dingen zou een wereld zijn waarin ik niet meer wil leven.

عندما يحرمنا الآخرون من العاطفة وا لاحترام والتقدير, لماذا لا يقدر الواحد منا على أن يقول لهم ببساطة :لست في حاجة إلى هذا , أنا مكتف بذاتي ؟ أليس هذا شكلا مرعباً من أشكال غياب الحرية التي استعصت علينا؟ألا يجعل منا هذا الأمر عبيداً للآخرين؟ أي المشاعر يمكن أن نجعلها سداً نستعين به , أو جداراً عازلاً لمجابهة كل ذلك؟كيف ستكون الصلابة الداخلية في المستقبل ؟

There were the people who read and there were the others. Whether you were a reader or a non-reader -- it was quickly noted. There was no greater distinction between people.

.. ikimiz sanki tehlikeli geçmişten artık korkmamız gerekmeyen bir geleceğe uzanan daracık, sağlam olmayan bir köprüden geçer gibiydik. Artık birbirimizden kaçmamıza gerek yoktu.

İroni hissetmeyi beklemek. İnsanın yalnızlıkla arasında ironik bir ilişki olabilir mi?

Pourquoi plaignons-nous les gens qui ne peuvent voyager ? parce que, empêchés de se déployer extérieurement, ils ne peuvent pas non plus s'étendre intérieurement, ils ne peuvent pas se multiplier, et ils sont ainsi privés de la possibilité d'entreprendre de vastes excursions en eux-mêmes et de découvrir qui et ce qu'ils auraient du devenir d'autre

Uykusuz insanları sessiz bir dayanışma birbirlerine bağlar.

Hij sloeg het notitieboekje dicht. Af en toe was hij in de stad een leerling of leerlinge tegengekomen aan wie hij jaren geleden les had gegeven. Het waren nu geen jongens en meisjes meer maar mannen en vrouwen met partners, beroepen en kinderen. Hij schrok als hij zag hoe hun gezicht was veranderd. Soms betrof zijn schrik het resultaat van de verandering: een te vroege verbittering, een opgejaagde blik, tekenen van een ernstige ziekte. Maar meestal was wat hem schrik aanjoeg het simpele feit dat de veranderde gezichten getuigden van het onstuitbare verstrijken van de tijd en het meedogenloze verval van alles wat leefde. Hij keek dan naar zijn handen waarop de eerste ouderdomsvlekken zichtbaar waren, en soms haalde hij foto's tevoorschijn van zichzelf als student en probeerde zich voor de geest te halen hoe het was geweest om die grote afstand af te leggen, dag na dag, jaar na jaar.

A ipak sam to znao, jer toga je bilo. Znanje koje se ukapava bespomoćnom djetetu, kap po kap, iz dana u dan, a da ono ni najmanje ne primijeti to znanje koje nečujno raste. Neprimjetno znanje se širi u njemu, poput podmaklog otrova, prodire u tkivo tijela i duše, odredjuje boju i nijanse njegova života. Iz tog znanja koje neprepoznato djeluje čija je moć ležala u njegovoj skrivenosti, u meni je nastao nevidljivi skriveni splet od nesalomljivih, nemilosrdnih očekivanja od sebe samog. kojeg su satkali okrutni pauci ambicije rodjene iz straha.

On bi se lecnuo kada bi neko upotrijebio riječi koje su imale veze sa nestajanjem ili prolaznošću - correr i passar. On je bio neko ko žestoko reaguje na riječi, kao da su one puno važnije od stvari. On je govorio o diktaturi lažnih i slobodi ispravnih riječi, o nevidljivoj tamnici jezičkog kiča, o svjetlu poezije. Lažna riječ mu je emetala više od uboda noža.

Melanholija - u njoj se pokazuje sva čovjekova krhkost.

Zahtjevi života su jednostavno suviše brojni, i previše silni da bi ih naši osjećaji mogli prebroditi neoštećeni.

Ne raspiaj svoje vrijeme, napravi od njega nešto što se isplati. Ali šta to može značiti? Da se konačno predje na to da se ostvare dugo gajene želje? Da se napadne zabluda da će za to poslije još uvijek biti vremena. Memento kao instrument u borbi protiv komoditeta, samoobmanjivanja koji je povezan sa nužnom promjenom. Otići na sanjano putovanje, još učiti taj jezik, čitati one knjige, ne iznevjeriti sebe....Tu spadaju i veće stvari. Napustiti nevoljeno zanimanje. Pobjeći iz omrznutog miljea. Činiti ono što doprinosi da se postane autentičan. Da se približimo samom sebi. Misleći na smrt, ispraviti odnos prema drugima. Okončati neprijateljstvo. Izvinuti se za učinjenu nepravdu. Odati priznanje za koje nismo bili spremni zbog sitničavosti. Stvari koje smo smatrali važnim ne uzimati za ozbiljno. Memento kao zahtjev da osjećamo drugačije.

Trebalo mi je godinu dana to prihvatiti. To da sam ustrajala na mojoj zamisli i da nisam dopustila da mi on nametne svoje. To je obilježilo naše prijateljstvo. Jer to je bilo to: prijateljstvo za svijeli život. Kako se rastajemo od nekoga ko nam je obilježio život kao niko drugi?

Htjeli razumjeti druge bila je njegova strast. Ali on ne bi bio on da nije i sumnjao u mogućnost jednog takvog razumijevanja, sumnjao tako radikalno da bi se čovjeku zavrtjelo u glavi u suprotnom smjeru.

Smisao nekog rastanka u punom važnom smislu riječi je to da se oba čovjeka, prije nego se razidju, sporazume o tome kako su se vidjeli i doživjeli. Opraštati se, to je takodjer nešto što se čini samom sebi. Stajati uz sebe pod pogledom drugog.

ŽIVI PIJESAK. AREIAS MOVEDICAS. Ako smo razumjeli da je uz svo nastojanje ipak stvar čite sreće to da li nam nešto uspijeva ili ne, ako smo dakle razumjeli da smo u svakom činu i doživljaju živi pijesak pred samim sobom i za same sebe, šta se onda dogadja sa svim prisnim i hvaljenim osjećajima kao što su ponos, utučenost i stid?

U tom razumijevanju stvari mi smo suvereni režiseri, samozvani dramaturzi, što se tiče otvaranja nas samih. Možda je to skroz naskroz pogrešno. Samoobmana? Našim riječima, mi se ne samo otkrivamo, mi se i odajemo. Odajemo mnogo više nego što smo htjeli otkriti, a ponekad je to upravo obratno. Drugi mogu naše riječi tumačiti kao simptome nečega, o čemu ni sami uopće ne znamo. Kao simptomi bolesti da budemo mi. Može biti zabavno kad druge posmatramo tako, to nas može učiniti tolerantnijim, ali nam može u ruke dati i municiju. A ako u trenutku u kojem počinjemo govoriti mislimo na to da drugi sa nama čine isto, onda nam riječ može zastati u grlu, a od užasa možemo zauvijek zanijemiti.

Šta već sve nije pročitao kada je sa 10 g. u svom malom, po mjeri skrojenom kaputu, prešao prag liceja. Neki od nas su se uhvatili kako potajno provjeravaju mogu li ići u korak s njim. A tada je on poslije nastave sa svojim fenomenalnim pamćenjem sjedio u biblioteci, a njegove tamne oči upijale su nevjerovatno koncentrisanim u misli zadubljenim pogledom kojeg ni najjači prasak ne bi mogao potresti u njegovoj postojanosti, sve te devele knjige, red po red, stranicu po stranicu. Kad Amadeu čita, rekao bi jedan učitelj, poslije toga više nema slova. On ne guta samo smisao, nego i crnu štamparsku boju.

Tako je i bilo. Činilo se da su tekstovi potpuno nestajali u njemu, a to što je poslije ostajalo u policama bile su samo prazne ljuske. Pejzaž njegova duha iza bestidno visokog čela širio se tempom koji oduzima dah, iz sedmice u sedmicu u njemu su se oblikovale nove formacije, iznenadjujuće formacije ideja, asocijacija i fantastičnih jezičnih zamisli koje su nas neprestano iznova čudile. Dogadjalo se da se sakrije u biblioteku i cijelu noć čita pomoću džepne svjetiljke. ...Majka se sve više sa izvjesnim ponosom privikavala na to da je njen dječak sklon da sva pravila stavi van snage. ....on bi jednostavno skrenuo pogled ne želeći da to drugi osjeti a rilikom izlaska bio je ljubazan i pristojan. Upravo ta uočljiva volja da ne vrijedja bila je uništavajuća. ...U njemu je bilo lomova, pukotina i skokova. ..Postojao je i drugi Amadeu. Dobar drug koji je spreman pomoći. Mogao je noćima sjediti kod drugih pomažući im,...tom drugom Amadeu pripadali su napadi potištenosti. Tada bi posato previše plašljiv, pri najmanjoj buci trgnuo bi se kao pod udarcem biča. U takvim trenucima djelovao je kao utjelovljena teškoća bivanja živim. Mnogao je mnogo toga - taj bogato obdareni mladić, samo jedno nije - slaviti, biti raspojasan, ne suzdržavati se. .... Tu je bila i ta djevojka. Amadeu ju je volio. Volio ju je na neponovljivo čedan način kojem su se svi smijali ne mogavši sakriti svoju zavist prema osjećaju koji zapravo postoji samo u bajkama. Volio ju je i poštovao.

Strah od toga da život ostane nepotpun da će ostati torzo; svijest o tome da nećemo moći postati onakvima kakvi smo željeli postati. Tako smo konačno protumačili strah od smrti. Ali pitao sam se, kako se možemo bojati nedostatka cjelovitosti i sklada života, ako ih ako su jednom postale neopozivom činjenicom - uopće ne doživljavamo? Zašto ne listam? Zašto ne provjeravam? Zašto ne želim znati šsta sam onda mislio i pisao? Odkud ova ravnodušnost? Da li je to ravnodušnost? Ili je gubitak veći i dublji? Htjeti znati kako ste ranije mislili i kako je iz toga postalo to što se misli sada: i to bi pripadalo cjelovitosti života, ako bi ona postojala? I tako bih dakle izgubio ono što smrt čini strašnom. Vjeru u sklad života za koji se isplati boriti i koji pokušavamo oteti od smrti?

Vidiš, to bi bilo tvoje putovanje, samo tvoje sasvim, ne bi moglo biti naše. I imala je pravo, druge ne možemo činiti gradbenim blokom našeg života, vodonošama na utrci za vlastito blaženstvo.

Šta može biti uzbudljivije od toga da ponovo prihvatimo neprekinuti život sa svim njegovim obećanjima? Zašto žalimo ljude koji ne mogu putovati - zato što se oni ne mogavši se proširiti izvana ne mogu protegnuti ni u nutrini, ne mogu se učiniti raznovrsnim, pa im je tako oduzeta mogućnost da u samima sebi poduzmu daleke izlete u same sebe i da otkriju ko bi ili šta bi drugo mogli postati.

Razumjeti sebe, nije li to otkriće ili stvaranje?

Da bi čovjek izgubio svoje dostojanstvo morao bi prokockati samog sebe.

To da postoje stvari koje neko ni po koju cijenu ne bi učinio ili dopustio - možda se u tome sastoji dostojanstvo. Ne moraju to biti moralne granice. Svoje se dostojanstvo može prokockati i na drugi način.Učitelj koji zbog podčinjenosti braku u varijetetu izigrava pijetla koji kukuriče. Udvorničko laskanje radi karijere. Bezgranični oportunizam. Neiskrenost i izbjegavanje sukoba da bi se spasio brakj. Takve stvari.

Ist es am Ende eine Frage des Selbstbilds, der bestimmenden Vorstellung, die man sich vor langer Zeit davon gemacht hat, was man geleistet und erlebt haben müßte, damit es das Leben würde, dem man zustimmen könnte? Die Angst vor dem Tod als die Angst vor dem Unerfüllten läge dann — so scheint es —ganz in meiner Hand, denn ich bin es ja, der das Bild vom eigenen Le­ben, wie es sich erfüllen sollte, entwirft. Was läge näher als der Gedanke: Dann ändere ich das Bild, so daß mein Leben ihm schon jetzt gemäß ist — und sofort müßte die Angst vor dem Tod verschwinden. Wenn sie trotzdem an mir haften bleibt, dann deshalb: Das Bild, obgleich von mir gemacht und von niemand anderem, entspringt nicht launenhafter Willkür und ist nicht verfügbar für beliebige Abänderung, sondern ist verankert in mir und wächst heraus aus dem Kräftespiel meines Fühlens und Denkens, das ich bin. Und so könnte man die Angst vor dem Tod beschreiben als die Angst, nicht der werden zu können, auf den hin man sich angelegt hat.

İnsanlar sessizliğe katlanamıyorlar, katlansalardı, kendilerine katlanmış olurlardı.

Hayat, yaşadığımız şey değildir; hayat, yaşadığımızı hayal ettiğimiz şeydir.

Of the thousand experiences we have, we find language for one at most and even this one merely by chance and without the care it deserves. Buried under all the mute experiences are those unseen ones that give our life its form, its color, and its melody.

Getting on an airplane and arriving a few hours later in a completely different world with no time to take in individual images of the road—he didn’t like that and it bothered him.

Blicke sind seltsam flüchtige Wesen: Es gibt sie nur, wenn jemand sie liest; dann aber sind sie beredter und genauer als alle Worte.

The afternoon began with Greek. It was the Rector who taught them (…). He had the most beautiful Greek handwriting you could imagine; he drew the letters ceremonially, and the loops especially – as in Omega or Theta, or when pulled the Eta down – were the purest calligraphy. He loved Greek. But he loved it in the wrong way; thought Gregorius at the back of the classroom. His way of loving it was a conceited way. It wasn’t by celebrating the words. If it had been that –Gregorius would have liked it. But when this man wrote out the most difficult verb forms, he celebrated not the words, but rather himself as one who knew them. The words thus became ornaments to him, he adorned himself with them, they turned into something like the polka dotted bow tie he wore year in, year out

Soms ben je ergens bang voor omdat je ergens anders bang voor bent.

Man darf die anderen nicht zu Bausteinen des eigenen Lebens machen, zu Wasserträgern beim Rennen um die eigene Seeligkeit.

Yaşananları sabit kelimelere dökmek, onları sınırlandırmaya çalışmaktır. Bunun da anlamı, sessiz birlikteliğimizi delmektir, bu birlikteliği öyle mükemmel görüyorduk ki, sözcüklere gerek kalmıyordu, insanın dokunamayacağı kutsal bir şey gibiydi, hatta ad bile vrilemezdi.

İnsanın kelimelere döktüğü şey, şimdiye kadar olduğu gibi hayatını sürdürür mü? Yoksa sözlerle sessizce meşgul olmak hayatı değiştirmenin en etkili yolu mu- en şiddetli patlamadan daha mı etkili?

Sana sarılmak acı veriyor Patrice. Her seferinde hayal kırıklığına uğruyorsun ve her seferinde hayal kırıklığın hissediliyor. Öyle sarılmamı istiyorsun ki, hiç kimseye öyle sarılamaz insan - hatta boğacak kadar sıkı sıkı sarılsa bile. Öyle sansan da sen bile kimseyi öyle tutamazsın. İnsan bir başkasının içinde kaybolamaz.(Böyle bir şeyden korkabilir ama.)

He could be merciless when he encountered vanity. Merciless. The knife opened in his pocket. It’s an unrecognized form of stupidity, he would say, you have to forget the cosmic meaninglessness of all our acts to be able to be vain and that’s a glaring form of stupidity.

Es gab die Menschen, die lasen, und es gab die anderen. Ob einer ein Leser war oder ein Nichtleser - man merkte es schnell. Es gab zwischen den Menschen keinen größeren Unterschied als diesen.

No one, not a single one of the discussants, showed the slightest indication of a change of mind in view of the reasons presented. And suddenly, with a fear I felt even in my body, I realized: that’s how it always is. Saying something to another: how can we expect it to affect anything? The current of thoughts, images and feelings that flows through us on every side, has such force, this torrential current, that it would be a miracle if it didn’t simply sweep away and consign to oblivion all words anyone else says to us, if they didn’t by accident, sheer accident, suit our own words. Is it different with me? I thought. Did I really listen to anybody else? Let him into me with his words so that my internal current would be diverted?

I think I know now why the nocturnal silence in this illustrious place is such a bad silence. The words, all of them destined to oblivion, have died out.

At twenty, he really knew everything and sometimes asked himself what was to come now. And yet he never knew how to play ball.

They aren’t texts, Gregorius. What people say aren’t texts. They simply talk.

To want to take them at their word—that was something only a philologist could come up with, particularly a philologist of ancient languages, who dealt all day with immutable words, with texts that had thousands of commentaries.

Take them as a chance to talk yourself! So that it keeps going on, talking.

I would not like to live in a world without cathedrals. I need the luster of their windows, their cool stillness, their imperious silence. I need the deluge of the organ and the sacred devotion of praying people. I need the holiness of words, the grandeur of great poetry. All that I need. But just as much I need the freedom and hostility against everything cruel. For the one is nothing without the other. And no one may force me to choose.

What ridiculous stories! We are stratified creatures, creatures full of abysses, with a soul of inconstant quicksilver, with a mind whose color and shape change as in a kaleidoscope that is constantly shaken.

We’re not limited to our own present, but, expanded far into the past. That comes through our feelings, especially the deep ones, those that determine who we are and how it is to be us. For these feelings know no time, they don’t know it and they don’t acknowledge it.

We leave something of ourselves behind when we leave a place, we stay there, even though we go away. And there are things in us that we can find again only by going back there.

The outlines of parental will and fear are written with a white-hot stylus in the souls of the children who are helpless and ignorant of what is happening to them. We need a whole life to find and decipher the branded text and we can never be sure we have understood it.

It was crazy, thought Gregorius: both men, father and son, had lived on opposite hills of the city like opposing actors in an ancient drama, linked in an archaic fear of each other and in an affection they didn’t find the words for and had written letters to each other that they didn’t trust themselves to send. Clasped in a muteness neither understood, and blind to the fact that one muteness produced the other.

Önümüzde açık ve biçimlendirilmemiş olarak uzanan, özgürlüğü açısından tüy gibi hafif, belirsizliği açısındansa kurşun gibi ağır onca zamanı nasıl kullanabilirdik, nasıl kullanmalıydık?

Der wirkliche Regisseur unseres Lebens ist der Zufall

There were the people who read and there were the others. Whether you were a reader or a nonreader—it was quickly noted. There was no greater distinction between people.

Even the outside world of an inside world is still a piece of our inside world, not to mention the thoughts we make about the inside world of strangers and that are so uncertain and unstable that they say more about ourselves than about others.

They all had the same image before them and yet, as Prado said, they each had seen something different because every piece of a human’s outside world seen was also a piece of an inside world. The Portuguese man had been sure that in not one single minute of his life had he been as he appeared to others; he hadn’t recognized himself in his outside—familiar as it was—and was deeply frightened at this strangeness.

But the world was a strain like that. Indeed it was also lighter with the light frame on the nose, the heavy steps he was used to no longer suited the new lightness in his face. But the world was closer and more oppressing, it demanded more of you, but its demands weren’t clear. When they became too much for him, these obscure demands, he retreated behind the old lenses that kept everything at a distance and allowed him to doubt whether there really was an outside world beyond words and texts, a doubt that was dear to him and without it he really couldn’t imagine life at all. But he could no longer forget the new view either

Was it possible that the best way to make sure of yourself was to know and understand someone else? One whose life had been completely different and had had a completely different logic than your own? How did curiosity for another life go together with the awareness that your own time was running out?

Why on earth didn’t I start it before! You’re not really awake when you don’t write. And you have no idea who you are. Not to mention who you aren’t.

To be able to part from something, he thought as the train started moving, you had to confront it in a way that created internal distance. You had to turn the unspoken, diffuse self-understanding it had wrapped around you into a clarity that showed what it meant to you. And that meant it had to congeal into something with distinct contours. Something as distinct as the list of the many students who had meant more to his life than anything else.

That words could cause something in the world, make someone move or stop, laugh or cry: even as a child he had found it enigmatic and it had never stopped impressing him. How did words do that? Wasn’t it like magic? But at this moment, the mystery seemed greater than usual, for these were words he hadn’t even known yesterday morning.

Given that we can live only a small part of what there is in us—what happens with the rest?

Here he had spent his whole life, here he knew his way around, here he was at home. For someone as nearsighted as he, that was important. For someone like him, the city he lived in was like a shell, a cozy cave, a safe structure. Everything else meant danger. Only someone who had such thick eyeglasses could understand that.

muffle the ringing. The voices guiding the language course wanted him to repeat words and short sentences. Lips and tongue felt heavy and clumsy when he tried it. The ancient languages seemed made for his Bern mouth, and the thought that you had to hurry didn’t appear in this timeless universe. The Portuguese, on the other hand, seemed always to be in a hurry, like the French, which made him feel inferior.

The voices guiding the language course wanted him to repeat words and short sentences. Lips and tongue felt heavy and clumsy when he tried it. The ancient languages seemed made for his Bern mouth, and the thought that you had to hurry didn’t appear in this timeless universe. The Portuguese, on the other hand, seemed always to be in a hurry, like the French, which made him feel inferior. Florence had loved it, this breakneck elegance, and when he had heard how easily she succeeded, he had become mute. But now everything was different all of a sudden: Gregorius wanted to imitate the impetuous pace of the man and the woman’s dancing lightness like a piccolo, and repeated the same sentences over to narrow the distance between his stolid enunciation and the twinkling voice on the record. After a while, he understood that he was experiencing a great liberation; the liberation from his self-imposed limitation, from a slowness and heaviness expressed in his name and had been expressed in the slow measured steps of his father walking ponderously from one room of the museum to another;

Lips and tongue felt heavy and clumsy when he tried it. The ancient languages seemed made for his Bern mouth, and the thought that you had to hurry didn’t appear in this timeless universe. The Portuguese, on the other hand, seemed always to be in a hurry, like the French, which made him feel inferior.