Vuillard Quotes

Anyway, for whatever interest is to be derived therefrom. Bacon, Balthus, and Magritte are my three favourite painters, along with Dubuffet, of the whole post-impressionist period, by which I mean that before them Bonnard, Vuillard, & Seurat are my favourite painters of that time.

After the great Impressionists, and again after Van Gogh and Gaugin, people said, 'Painting is now played out.' But Bonnard, Maurice Denis, Roussel and Vuillard appeared and gave them the lie. 'We were wrong,' said the croakers, 'but this at any rate is the end.' Yet to refute them, and to prove that there is no end to art, still another generation of painters sprang up.

Le traité de Versailles avait interdit aux Allemands la fabrication de chars, les entreprises allemandes produisirent donc par l’intermédiaire de sociétés écrans, à l’étranger. On voit que l’ingénierie financière sert depuis toujours aux manoeuvres les plus nocives.

Last month I was banging on about how books were better than anything—-how just about any decent book you picked would beat up anything else, any film or painting or piece of music, you cared to match it up with. Anyway, like most theories advanced in this column, it turned out to be utter rubbish. I went to a couple of terrific exhibitions at the Royal Academy (and that’s a hole in my argument right there—one book might beat up one painting, but what chance has one book, or even four books, got against the collected works of Guston and Vuillard?)...

And now gentleman, pony up." Cavalier though it was, the invitation was hardly novel to these men, who were used to kickbacks and backhanders. Corruption is an irreducible line item in the budget of large companies, and it goes by several names: lobbying fees, gifts, political contributions.

Don't believe for a minute that this all belongs to some distant past. These are not antediluvian monsters, creatures who pitifully faded away in the 1950s along with the poverty depicted by Rossellini, or were carted off with the ruins of Berlin. These names still exist. Their fortunes are enormous.

And even if you don't give a shit whether or not the Chinese painter of rocks and birds had some mysterious kinship of the soul with the Landgrave of Hesse, fantasies are nonetheless one path to the truth. History is Philomela, and they raped her, or so they say, and cut her tongue, and she whistles at night from deep in the woods.

e never fall twice into the same abyss. But we always fall the same way, in a mixture of ridicule and dread. We so desperately want not to fall that we grapple for a handhold, screaming. With their heels they crush our fingers, with their beaks they smash our teeth and peck out our eyes. The abyss is bordered by tall mansions. And there stands History, a reasonable goddess, a frozen statue in the middle of the town square. Dried bunches of peonies are her annual tribute; her daily gratuity, bread crumbs for the birds.

They might not give in to the demands of justice, they might not yield to an insurgent populace, but they'll always fold before a bluff.

His body will be dragged over the scaffold and thrown to the dogs. Youth is endless, the secret of our equality immortal, and solitude wonderful. Martyrdom is a trap for the oppressed.

Why the God of the poor was so strangely on the side of the rich, always with the rich. Why his words about giving up everything issued from the mouths of those who had taken everything.

It’s strange how the most dyed-in-the-wool tyrants still vaguely respect due process, as if they want to make it appear that they aren’t abusing procedure, even while riding roughshod over every convention. It’s as if power isn’t enough for them, and that they take special pleasure in forcing their enemies to perform, one last time and for their benefit, the same rituals that they are even then demolishing.

Wingate sighs thoughtfully. "Hard to say. He's not static. He began with almost pure Impressionism, which is dead. Anyone can do it. But the vision was there. Between the fifth and twelfth paintings, he began to evolve something much more fascinating. Are you familiar with the Nabis?" The what?" Nabis. It means 'prophets.' Bonnard, Denis, Vuillard?" What I know about art wouldn't fill a postcard." Don't blame yourself. That's the American educational system. They simply don't teach it. Not unless you beg for it. Not even in university.

And so they began to realize they’d been lied to. They had long felt troubled and afflicted; there were many things they didn’t understand. They had a hard time understanding why God, the God of beggars, crucified between two thieves, needed such pomp. Why his ministers needed luxury of such embarrassing proportions. Why the God of the poor was so strangely on the side of the rich, always with the rich. Why his words about giving up everything issued from the mouths of those who had taken everything.

In the grand scheme of business, partisan struggles didn't amount to much. Politicians and industrialists routinely dealt with each other.

«¡No son los campesinos quienes se sublevan, sino Dios!», cuentan que dijo Lutero [...]. Pero no era Dios. Eran sin duda los campesinos los que se sublevaban. A no ser que llamemos Dios al hambre, la enfermedad, la humillación, la penuria. No se subleva Dios, se sublevan la servidumbre, los feudos, los diezmos, el decreto de manos muertas, el arriendo, la tala, el viático, la recogida de paja, el derecho de pernada, las narices cortadas, los ojos reventados, los cuerpos quemados, apaleados, atenaceados. Las querellas sobre el más allá nos llevan en realidad a las cosas de este mundo.

MAN PLAYS A TUNE IN COLORS THE VIBRATIONS OF MUSIC LIGHT UP MACHINES. SIMPLER YET, WRITE ‘AZURE’ & THE LANGUAGE- CONDUCTING BRAIN IS FLOODED WITH A TONE OF SUMMER SKIES. THE PAINTER’S PIGMENTS ARE BLANKLY SEEN THEY CONTAIN NO LIGHT. ARE NOT PAINTINGS BLANK IN A DARK ROOM? & EVEN THE LIVE WHITE LIGHT SHED UPON THEM APPEARS BUT TO DIM THEM FURTHER Vuillard, Piero, Goya, Blake, O’Keeffe, Who lit the mind? It blinks in disbelief.

Las palabras quedan dichas de nuevo: «ni mediante el dinero ni mediante el poder de los príncipes», esas mismas palabritas que cambian de forma, de tono, pero no de objetivo, y que, cuando retornan al mundo, siempre pugnan contra el dinero, la fuerza y el poder. Esas palabras van a ser poco a poco las nuestras. Van a tardar tiempo, mucho tiempo en labrarse un camino hasta nosotros.

Pero el 14 de julio, la Bastilla no está sitiada por el duque de Guisa y un puñado de bribones, no está hostigada por los ejércitos del rey de Francia, ni por los del príncipe de Condé. No. La situación es totalmente nueva, sin precedente en los anales. El 14 de julio de 1789, la que sitia la Bastilla es París.

Hay que escribir lo que se ignora. En puridad, se desconoce lo que ocurrió el 14 de julio. Los relatos que poseemos son encorsetados o descabalados. Hay que plantearse las cosas a partir de la multitud sin nombre. Y debe relatarse lo que no está escrito. Debemos deducirlo del número, de lo que sabemos de la tasca y de la calle, del fondo de los bolsillos y de la jerga de las cosas, mondas deformadas, mendrugos de pan.

¡Oh, Kissinger, con lo listo que te creías, el Talleyrand de la guerra fría, qué ridículo resultas con tu sonrisa tranquila, tu aire de saberlo todo, tus famosísimas gafas que, sin embargo, no te han dejado ver nada!

En la esperanza absurda de una salida honrosa, se habrán necesitado treinta años y millones de muertos, ¡para que todo termine así! Treinta años para salir así del escenario. Quizás habría sido mejor la deshonra.

[E]l que había organizado la resistencia victoriosa al invasor, el que había expulsado a los belgas del Congo, vio que eso era algo, claro, pero que, en cierto sentido, aún no era nada, que los belgas no eran nada, que el verdadero poder — y lo sabía desde el principio, desde que trabajó de oficinista en una empresa minera de Kivu del Sur — era la Union Minière del Alto Katanga.

Solo en medio de los soldados, Lumumba se niega enérgicamente a que le venden los ojos. Exige mirar a la muerte a la cara.

Cuanto más nos acercamos al poder, menos responsables nos sentimos.

Pero no había perdido nada. Eran los cientos de miles de culis que habían trabajado en las minas y en las plantaciones, no era él, era el ejército popular de Vietnam el que había perdido quinientos mil hombres, era el país ocupado el que había sido devastado, aniquilado. Navarre solo había truncado su carrera y la culpa era suya.

[A]ntes de Cao Bang, antes del 'desastre de Cao Bang', hacía cinco años, antes de los cinco mil muertos: Indochina ya no representaba nada en la cartera del banco. Habían liquidado discretamente aquel negocio y los combates se libraban, pese a todo, por una colonia ya vaciada de su sustancia.

Y así podríamos seguir horas y encontraríamos cien veces a las mismas personas en todos los consejos de administración, en todos los palacetes, en todos los árboles genealógicos.

Se llaman de apellido Mathieu, Guillaume, Firmin, porque los pobres no suelen tener nada mejor que ponerse. Puede también llevar apellidos y nombres iguales [...]; eso rubrica dos veces su pobreza. Tienen también apellidos de oficios [...]. Pero pronto tendrán un nombre, se llamarán Étienne Lantier, Jean Valjean y Julien Sorel.

Enfrente está la avenida del Gran Patio, el pasaje que conduce al último puente levadizo: un pequeño pasillo que va desde el Antiguo Régimen hacia otra cosa.

El martirio es una trampa para los oprimidos, sólo es deseable la victoria. Yo la contaré.

La gente quiere historias, aclaran las cosas, dicen; y cuanto más auténtica es la historia, más gusta. Pero las historias verídicas nadie sabe contarlas. Sin embargo, estamos hechos de historias, nos han criado junto a ellas desde la infancia: «¡Escuchad! ¡Leed! ¡Mirad!», hágase nuestra verdad, que nos toque en lo más vivo, que nos envíe lo más lejos posible mediante imágenes y palabras.

No me creo nada. En esas leyendas infames, la cerviz de los renegados sólo se doblega en el momento en que se les retira la palabra. Esas leyendas sólo pretenden que resuene en nosotros la voz que nos atormenta, la voz del orden, a la que en el fondo nos hallamos tan ligados que cedemos a sus misterios y le entregamos nuestras vidas.

On ne tombe jamais deux fois dans le même abîme. Mais on tombe toujours de la même manière, dans un mélange de ridicule et d'effroi.

Müntzer exhorted his men, screamed his confidence in God, tried to grab them by the sleeve, I don't know what he did, probably he shed tears, he raged.

Concerning the end of Thomas Müntzer, there exists a legend of cowardice with many variants. Müntzer supposedly fled and hid and they found him and turned him over to Count von Mansfield and he was imprisoned in a dungeon and tortured and supposedly he recanted and implored the princes for money and dictated a contrite letter to the inhabitants of Mühlhausen. I don't believe a word of it.

Si l'on soulève les haillons hideux de l'Histoire, on trouve cela: la hiérarchie contre légalité et l'ordre contre la liberté. (p127)

Et ce qui étonne dans cette guerre, c'est la réussite inouïe du culot, dont on doit retenir une chose: le monde cède au bluff. Même le monde le plus sérieux, le plus rigide, même le vieil ordre, s'il ne cède jamais à l'exigence de justice, s'il ne plie jamais devant le peuple qui s'insurge, plie devant le bluff. (p118)

Outside the borders of Saxony, hardly anyone knows Zwickau. It’s just another backwater. Zwicker means pince-nez; Zwickel means gusset; Zwiebel, onion; and zwiebeln, to harass or bully. But Zwickau means nothing, or else it means onionskin, poor slobs, good business, yes, that’s what Zwickau means: poor slobs and good business.

For man is poor. Irremediably. We *are* poverty, buffeted between desire and disgust.

There's nothing worse than resentful masses, militias with their armbands and faux-military insignias, young people caught up in false dilemmas, squandering their passions on awful causes.

He said no, firmly, to the freedom of the Social Democrats. He said no, courageously, to freedom of the press...He said no to the right to strike, no to assemblies, no to the existence of parties other than his own...And so, once his little moment of hesitation had passed... Schuschnigg the intransigent, Mr. No, negation made dictator. turned toward Germany and, with a strangled voice, red snout and moist eye, uttered a feeble "yes.

He said no, firmly, to the freedom of the Social Democrats. He said no, courageously,m to freedom of the press...He said no to the right to strike, no to assemblies, no to the existence of parties other than his own...And so, once his little moment of hesitation had passed... Schuschnigg the intransigent, Mr. No, negation made dictator. turned toward Germany and, with a strangled voice, red snout and moist eye, uttered a feeble "yes.

Political maneuvering tramples facts.

The sun is a cold star.

La vraie pensee est toujours secrete, depuis l'origine du monde. On pense par apocope, en apnee. Dessous, la vie s'ecoule comme une seve, lente, souterraine.

É tamanha a arte da narrativa que nada é inocente.

«Quando discutes com um adversário, tenta pôr-te na pele dele.»

On ne tombe jamais deux fois dans le même abîme. Mais on tomba toujours de la même manière, dans un mélange de ridicule et d'effroi. Et on voudrait tant ne plus tomber qu'on s'arc-boute, on hurle. A coups de talon, on nous brise les doigts, à coups de bec on nous casse les dents, on nous ronge les yeux. L'abîme est bordé de hautes demeures. Et l'Histoire est là, déesse raisonnable, statue figée au milieu de la place des Fêtes, avec pour tribut, une fois l'an, des gerbes séchées de pivoines, et, en guise de pourboire, chaque jour, du pain pour les oiseaux.

Tratado de Versalhes proibira aos alemães o fabrico de tanques, as empresas alemãs produziram-nos pois no estrangeiro, por intermédio de sociedades-sombra. Já por aqui se vê que a engenharia financeira tem servido desde sempre para as manobras mais nocivas.

pode-se dizer que, até à entrada na guerra dos russos e dos americanos, as imagens que temos da guerra foram encenadas para toda a eternidade por Joseph Goebbels.

fim de sancionar a anexação da Áustria, organizou-se um referendo.

No sorriso das jovens de Viena, nesse dia 12 de março de 1938, no meio dos gritos da multidão, no perfume fresco dos miosótis, no coração daquela alegria bizarra, de todo aquele entusiasmo, deve ter experimentado uma mágoa de trevas.

Basta por vezes uma palavra para congelar uma frase, para nos mergulhar num qualquer devaneio;

canguelo

A motor is a sublime thing, a real miracle if you think about it.A bit of fuel, a spark [...] But in fact it's only simple on paper, and when it stops working, what a hassle! None of it makes any sense.

He consistently encouraged the Führer to pursue the most audacious courses of action, flattering his brutal, megalomaniacal tendencies. And so he had climbed the ladder of Nazi glory, the man Hitler called behind his back ‘the little champagne salesman’ – for prejudices are hard to shake, even for the most assiduous wreckers of the social order.

In the grand scheme of business, partisan struggles didn’t amount to much. Politicians and industrialists routinely dealt with each other.

All the kingdoms that follow Babylon will be destroyed, except for one. That one is indestructible, for it is the Kingdom of God. The princes don't really care to hear about the destruction of kingdoms. The idea unsettles them. Nebuchadnezzer's dream is a prophecy of doom.

Negotiations are a means of combat.

A man with a narrow skull, weak mouth, and an empty gaze; the kind of person who, had he been born in a modest London suburb, would not have been given a second look.

What’s astounding about this war is the remarkable triumph of bravado, from which we can infer one lesson: everyone is susceptible to a bluff. Even the strictest, most serious, most old-world souls: they might not give in to the demands of justice, they might not yield to an insurgent populace, but they’ll always fold before a bluff.

Not to mention that, since the beginning of their existence, they have been trained to feel so much respect, so much fear, that they're still willing to take a prince at his word, at least for a while. We always want to believe what the father says. Our desire is attuned to his register.

Martyrdom is a trap for the oppressed. Only victory is desirable.