Samuel Beckett:Unnamable

“Unfortunately I am afraid, as always, of going on. For to go on means going from here, means finding me, losing me, vanishing and beginning again, a stranger first, then little by little the same as always, in another place, where I shall say I have always been, of which I shall know nothing, being incapable of seeing, moving, thinking, speaking, but of which little by little, in spite of these handicaps, I shall begin to know something, just enough for it to turn out to be the same place as always, the same which seems made for me and does not want me, which I seem to want and do not want, take your choice, which spews me out or swallows me up, I’ll never know, which is perhaps merely the inside of my distant skull where once I wandered, now am fixed, lost for tininess, or straining against the walls, with my head, my hands, my feet, my back, and ever murmuring my old stories, my old story, as if it were the first time.”

Categories: Beket, bezimeni, citati, fear, francuska knjizevnost, irska literatura, knjizevnost, literatura, Pariz, samuel beckett, Semjuel, semjuel beket, unnamable

Deaths and Entrances-Dylan Thomas

On almost the incendiary eve
Of several near deaths,
When one at the great least of your best loved
And always known must leave
Lions and fires of his flying breath,
Of your immortal friends
Who'd raise the organs of the counted dust
To shoot and sing your praise,
One who called deepest down shall hold his peace
That cannot sink or cease
Endlessly to his wound
In many married London's estranging grief.

On almost the incendiary eve
When at your lips and keys,
Locking, unlocking, the murdered strangers weave,
One who is most unknown,
Your polestar neighbour, sun of another street,
Will dive up to his tears.
He'll bathe his raining blood in the male sea
Who strode for your own dead
And wind his globe out of your water thread
And load the throats of shells
with every cry since light
Flashed first across his thunderclapping eyes.

On almost the incendiary eve
Of deaths and entrances,
When near and strange wounded on London's waves
Have sought your single grave,
One enemy, of many, who knows well
Your heart is luminous
In the watched dark, quivering through locks and caves,
Will pull the thunderbolts
To shut the sun, plunge, mount your darkened keys
And sear just riders back,
Until that one loved least
Looms the last Samson of your zodiac.

*Ricard Barton cita pesmu Dilana Tomasa "Deaths and Entrances"

Categories: Burton, citanje, deaths, Dilan Tomas, Dylan Thomas, engleska knjizevnost, entrances, pesme, poetry, poezija, quotes, reading, Richard, Richard Burton

Hulio Kortasar-Skolice (2)

Dodirujem ti usta, prstom dodirujem rub tvojih usana i ocrtavam ih kao da izlaze iz moje ruke, kao da se tvoja usta po prvi put malko otvaraju, dovoljno je da zazmurim pa da se sve raspline i sve ponovo pocne, svaki put stvaram usta koja pozelim, usta koja moja ruka bira i crta na tvom licu, usta izabrana od svih mogucih suverenom slobodom mog sopstvenog izbora da ih svojom rukom iscrtavam na tvom licu, a koja se pukom slucajnoscu koju ne nastojim da shvatim, podudaraju bas sa ustima sto se smese, ispod ovih koja ti crta moja ruka.

Gledas me, gledas me izbliza, sve blize me gledas, zatim se igramo kiklopa, gledamo se iz sve vece blizine a oci postaju sve vece, priblizavaju se i pretapaju, kiklopi se gledaju i zbunjeno disu, a usta se srecu, bore se u toplom, grickaju se usnama, jedva prislanjaju jezik o zube, igraju se po odajama gde tezak vazduh struji donoseci znani miris i tisinu. Tada moje ruke uranjaju u tvoju kosu, lagano miluju dubinu tvoje kose dok se ljubimo kao da su nam usta puna cveca ili riba, zivih pokreta, tamnih miomirisa. Ako se ujedamo, ta bol je slatka, ako se davimo u kratkom ali stravicnom i istovremenom uzimanju daha, ta trenutna smrt je lepa. I samo je jedan sok iz usta i samo je jedan ukus zrelog voca, i ja osecam kako pored mene treperis kao mesec na vodi.

Categories: argentinska knjizevnost, argentinska literatura, citati, cortazar, hopscotch, hulio kortasar, julio, knjizevnost, maga, rayuela, roman, skolice

Nick Cave-Your funeral my trial

I am a crooked man
And I've walked a crooked mile
Night, the shameless widow
Doffed her weeds, in a pile
The stars all winked at me
They shamed a child
Your funeral, my trial
A thousand Marys lured me
To feathered beds and fields of glover
Bird with crooked wing cast
It's wicked shadow overA bauble moon did mock
And trinket stars did smile
Your funeral, my trial
Here I am, little lamb...
Let all the bells in whoredom ring
All the crooked bitches that she was
Saw the moon
Become a fang
Your funeral, my trial

Categories: nick cave, nik kejv, pesme, pevac

Hulio Kortasar-Skolice

I tako sam sreo Magu, koja je ne sluteci bila moj svedok i moja uhoda, tako sam nasao i razlog za nerviranje sto sam na sve to mislio, znajuci da mi je obicno lakse da mislim nego da budem, da u mom slucaju onaj ergo iz Dekartove sentence uopste nije ergo ni bilo sta slicno, tako smo isli Levom obalom, a Maga nije ni slutila da je moja uhoda i moj svedok, bezmerno se divila mojim raznovrsnim znanjima, mom poznavanju knjizevnosti pa cak i cool dzeza, sto je za nju predstavljalo nedokucivu tajnu. Zbog svega toga osecao sam se antagonijski blizak Magi, voleli smo se u jednoj dijalektici magneta i opiljka, napada i odbrane, lepote i zida. Pretpostavljam da je Maga gajila neke iluzije o meni, mora da je mislila da sam izlecen od predrasuda ili da postupno usvajam njega, kudikamo leprsavija i poeticnija predubedjenja. Usred nestalnog zadovoljstva, u jeku laznog primirja, ispruzio sam ruku i dotakao klupko Pariza, njegovu beskrajnu materiju koja samu sebe mota, magmu vazduha i onoga sto se ocrtavalo na prozoru, oblacke i potkrovlja, tada nije bilo nereda, tada je svet jos bio nesto skamenjeno i ustaljeno, igracka sastavljena od delova koji se okrecu na svojim sarkama, klupko ulica i drveca, imena i meseci. Nije bilo nekog nereda koji bi otvarao vrata iskupljenju, bilo je samo prljavstine i bede, casa sa ostacima piva, carapa u nekom uglu, bio je krevet koji je zaudarao na seks i na kosu, bila je jedna zena koja me je tankom i providnom rukom milovala po bedrima odgadjajuci ono milovanje koje ce me na cas otrgnuti sa te mrtve straze. Uvek prekasno, jer ma koliko vodili ljubav, sreca mora da je nesto drugo, nesto mozda i tuznije od ovog mira i zadovoljstva, nesto kao zvuk jednoroga ili zov sa ostrva, neki beskonacan pad u nepomicnost. Maga nije znala da su moji poljupci kao oci koje se otvaraju podalje od nje i da sam ja isao kao izvadjen iz sebe, prerucen u drugu figuru sveta, kao vrtoglavi kormilar na crnom pramcu koji sece vodu vremena i porice je.   

          

Categories: argentinska knjizevnost, citati, cortazar, hopscotch, hulio, hulio kortasar, julio, knjizevnost, kortasar, literatura, quotes, rayuela, skolice