Najljepsi odlomci i citati iz svjetske knjizevnosti

[Bluemoon]

Da zanemarim ljubavnu priču u Panu kod Hamsuna i da zanemarim što je ispa kreten diveći se Hitleru ovaj odlomak iz Pana je savršen.

"Daleko sam od varoške buke i gurnjave, od novina i ljudi, od svega sam toga pobegao, jer sam ponovo pozvan u prirodu i usamljenost, odakle i potičem. ,,Videćeš, sve će biti dobro“, razmišljam u najboljoj nadi. Oh, i ranije sam već tako bežao iz grada i ponovo se tako vraćao. I sad sam ponovo pobegao… Lutam po ostrvu kao i obično i premišljam o raznim stvarima.Mir, mir, nebeski mir izbija iz svakog drveta u šumi. Nema više ni mnogo ptica, samo nekoliko vrana bešumno leti s mjesta na mjesto. Možda Grindhisen ima i pravo kada kaže da ,, svako sutra brinuće se za sebe“. Nisam čitao novine već dva tjedna, a ipak sam još živ, raspoložen sam, napredujem u zadobijanju unutrašnjeg mira, pevam, ispravljam se i gologlav promatram zvezdano nebo“."

Poslano sa mog CPH2135 koristeći Tapatalk

[Bluemoon]

Ovaj Pekić je u stvari Car najjači.Kad reko da ga je teško čitati prisjetih se dana u GSP u Beogradu u prokletoj 18-ci od Voždovca do Zemuna đe mi je bio drug da podnesem nepodnošljivu vožnju 18-com.
Moj faul.Tad nisam toliko toga uvidjela kad mu se vratih.
Ka ono kad ti roditelji zbore sjetićeš se ti jednog dana mojih riječi a gledaš ih ka glupo tele koje pojma nema o čemu pričaju.
Njegove stranice i stranice o Čovjeku,Prirodi i Čovječanstvu su sušto blago.







Zaljubila sam se u Arna.

Poslano sa mog CPH2135 koristeći Tapatalk

[Raulio]

Da zanemarim ljubavnu priču u Panu kod Hamsuna i da zanemarim što je ispa kreten diveći se Hitleru ovaj odlomak iz Pana je savršen.

"Daleko sam od varoške buke i gurnjave, od novina i ljudi, od svega sam toga pobegao, jer sam ponovo pozvan u prirodu i usamljenost, odakle i potičem. ,,Videćeš, sve će biti dobro“, razmišljam u najboljoj nadi. Oh, i ranije sam već tako bežao iz grada i ponovo se tako vraćao. I sad sam ponovo pobegao… Lutam po ostrvu kao i obično i premišljam o raznim stvarima.Mir, mir, nebeski mir izbija iz svakog drveta u šumi. Nema više ni mnogo ptica, samo nekoliko vrana bešumno leti s mjesta na mjesto. Možda Grindhisen ima i pravo kada kaže da ,, svako sutra brinuće se za sebe“. Nisam čitao novine već dva tjedna, a ipak sam još živ, raspoložen sam, napredujem u zadobijanju unutrašnjeg mira, pevam, ispravljam se i gologlav promatram zvezdano nebo“."

Poslano sa mog CPH2135 koristeći Tapatalk

Ahah što fali ljubavnoj priči u Panu, menaž a troa, potpuno nenormalni ljudi, ono jes - likovi Edvarde i one kovačeve žene nisu razvijani toliko jer nema ni potrebe, tačno kako treba u modernoj književnosti. On vojnik, u ratu se zasitio ljudima, šumski čovjek, ona - društvo, ljudi i njihova kakva gođ da je - kultura. Hamsun još nije realizam, ali ta ljubavna priča je, iako simbolička, realna zahvaljujući likovima. Ne mogu nać onu zadnju rečenicu/misao, mišljah da imam knjigu ali čitao sam je prije mjesec, dva, i ide nešto kao: Moje mjesto je u šumama, u samoći.
Divio se Hitleru pa je kreten ispao. E čuš

[Raulio]

Sam sam se stavio u ulogu cenzora:
Noću, dok gledam Borisovu kozju bradicu na jastuku, spopadaju me napadi histerije. O Tanja, gde je sada tvoja topla pi*ka, gde su oni debeli, teški halteri, meki, napupeli kukovi! U ku*cu mi je kost od šest palaca. Zagladiću svaki nabor koji imaš u sebi, Tanja, semena puna. Otići ćeš kući, Silvesteru, s bolom u stomaku, sa izvrnutom utrobom. Tvoj Silvester! Da, možda on ume da potpali vatru, ali ja znam kako da zapalim pi*ku. Pogađam te plamenim munjama, Tanja, jajnici ti se žare! Tvoj Silvester je pomalo ljubomoran? Oseća nešto, zar ne? Oseća trag velikog ku*ca. Malo sam razmakao obale. Zagladio sam nabore. Posle mene možeš da primaš pastuve, bikove, ovnove, zmajeve, bernardince. U zadnjicu možeš da guraš krastače, slepe miševe i guštere. Možeš da prdiš arpeđa, ako poželiš, ili da zategneš citru preko pupka. Kad završim s tobom, bićeš propisno do*ebana. Ako se bojiš da ti to radim javno, je*aću te privatno. Iščupaću ti nekoliko dlačica i uplešću ih u Borisovu bradicu. Zagrišću ti klitoris i pljuvaću komade velike kao kovanice…
.......
Problem sa Irenom je u tome što umesto pi*ke ima omanju putnu torbu. Traži debela pisma da ih gura unutra. Ogromna, avec des choses inouies.* Lona je baš imala pi*ku. Znam to jer nam je poslala nekoliko dlačica odozdo. Lona – divlja magarica, njuši zadovoljstva u vetru. Bila je ***** na svakom od brda – ponekad i u telefonskim govornicama i javnim toaletima. Kupila je Kralju Karolu krevet i posudu za brijanje s njegovim inicijalima. Legla je nasred Totenhem korta i zadigla haljinu da se sama zadovolji. Koristila je sveće, petarde i kvake. U čitavoj zemlji nije bilo dovoljno velikog ku*ca za nju… nijednog. Muškarci bi ušli unutra i tamo se šćućurili. A ona je tražila kur*eve s produžecima, rakete koje eksplodiraju, uzavrelo ulje od voska i kreozota. Kad bi mogla, odsekla bi ku*ac i zadržala ga zauvek u sebi. Jedna u milion, Lona! Prava laboratorijska pi*ka, a nije bilo lakmus papira koji bi joj pogodio boju. Bila je i lažljivica, ta Lona. Zapravo nije kupila krevet Kralju Karolu. Krunisala ga je flašom viskija, jezikom punim vašaka i sutrašnjih dana. Siroti Karol, mogao je samo da se sklupča u njoj i umre. Duboko je uzdahnula, a on je ispao napolje kao mrtva školjka. Ogromna, debela pisma, avec de choses inouies. Putna torba bez ručke. Rupa bez ključa. Imala je nemačka usta, francuske uši, rusko dupe. I internacionalnu pi*ku. Kad bi se zastava zavijorila, crvenela se iznutra sve do grla. Kao da sam zaronio pod zemlju na Bulevaru Žil Feri, a izašao na Port de la Vilet. Kao da bacam iznutrice na zapregu – crvenu zapregu sa dva točka, naravno. Kao Urk koji utiče u Marnu, a voda juri kroz kanale i širi se ispod mostova kao staklo. Sada tamo leži Lona, a kanal je pun krhotina stakla: mimoze jecaju, na prozorska okna pada vlažan magličasti prdež. Jedna u milion, ta Lona! Samo pi*ka i staklena zadnjica na kojoj se može pročitati istorija srednjeg veka.

[nicky]

Before my teacher came to me, I did not know that I am. I lived in a world that was a no-world. I cannot hope to describe adequately that unconscious, yet conscious time of nothingness. I did not know that I knew aught, or that I lived or acted or desired. I had neither will nor intellect. I was carried along to objects and acts by a certain blind natural impetus. I had a mind which caused me to feel anger, satisfaction, desire. These two facts led those about me to suppose that I willed and thought. I can remember all this, not because I knew that it was so, but because I have tactual memory. It enables me to remember that I never contracted my forehead in the act of thinking. I never viewed anything beforehand or chose it. I also recall tactually the fact that never in a start of the body or a heart-beat did I feel that I loved or cared for anything. My inner life, then, was a blank without past, present, or future, without hope or anticipation, without wonder or joy or faith.

It was not night—it was not day.
. . . . .
But vacancy absorbing space,
And fixedness, without a place;
There were no stars—no earth—no time—
No check—no change—no good—no crime.

My dormant being had no idea of God or immortality, no fear of death.

I remember, also through touch, that I had a power of association. I felt tactual jars like the stamp of a foot, the opening of a window or its closing, the slam of a door. After repeatedly smelling rain and feeling the discomfort of wetness, I acted like those about me: I ran to shut the window. But that was not thought in any sense. It was the same kind of association that makes animals take shelter from the rain. From the same instinct of aping others, I folded the clothes that came from the laundry, and put mine away, fed the turkeys, sewed bead-eyes on my doll's face, and did many other things of which I have the tactual remembrance. When I wanted anything I liked,—ice-cream, for instance, of which I was very fond,—I had a delicious taste on my tongue (which, by the way, I never have now), and in my hand I felt the turning of the freezer. I made the sign, and my mother knew I wanted ice-cream. I "thought" and desired in my fingers. If I had made a man, I should certainly have put the brain and soul in his finger-tips. From reminiscences like these I conclude that it is the opening of the two faculties, freedom of will, or choice, and rationality, or the power of thinking from one thing to another, which makes it possible to come into being first as a child, afterwards as a man.

Since I had no power of thought, I did not compare one mental state with another. So I was not conscious of any change or process going on in my brain when my teacher began to instruct me. I merely felt keen delight in obtaining more easily what I wanted by means of the finger motions she taught me. I thought only of objects, and only objects I wanted. It was the turning of the freezer on a larger scale. When I learned the meaning of "I" and "me" and found that I was something, I began to think. Then consciousness first existed for me. Thus it was not the sense of touch that brought me knowledge. It was the awakening of my soul that first rendered my senses their value, their cognizance of objects, names, qualities, and properties. Thought made me conscious of love, joy, and all the emotions. I was eager to know, then to understand, afterward to reflect on what I knew and understood, and the blind impetus, which had before driven me hither and thither at the dictates of my sensations, vanished forever.

I cannot represent more clearly than any one else the gradual and subtle changes from first impressions to abstract ideas. But I know that my physical ideas, that is, ideas derived from material objects, appear to me first an idea similar to those of touch. Instantly they pass into intellectual meanings. Afterward the meaning finds expression in what is called "inner speech." When I was a child, my inner speech was inner spelling. Although I am even now frequently caught spelling to myself on my fingers, yet I talk to myself, too, with my lips, and it is true that when I first learned to speak, my mind discarded the finger-symbols and began to articulate. However, when I try to recall what some one has said to me, I am conscious of a hand spelling into mine.

It has often been asked what were my earliest impressions of the world in which I found myself. But one who thinks at all of his first impressions knows what a riddle this is. Our impressions grow and change unnoticed, so that what we suppose we thought as children may be quite different from what we actually experienced in our childhood. I only know that after my education began the world which came within my reach was all alive. I spelled to my blocks and my dogs. I sympathized with plants when the flowers were *****d, because I thought it hurt them, and that they grieved for their lost blossoms. It was two years before I could be made to believe that my dogs did not understand what I said, and I always apologized to them when I ran into or stepped on them.

As my experiences broadened and deepened, the indeterminate, poetic feelings of childhood began to fix themselves in definite thoughts. Nature—the world I could touch—was folded and filled with myself. I am inclined to believe those philosophers who declare that we know nothing but our own feelings and ideas. With a little ingenious reasoning one may see in the material world simply a mirror, an image of permanent mental sensations. In either sphere self-knowledge is the condition and the limit of our consciousness. That is why, perhaps, many people know so little about what is beyond their short range of experience. They look within themselves—and find nothing! Therefore they conclude that there is nothing outside themselves, either.

However that may be, I came later to look for an image of my emotions and sensations in others. I had to learn the outward signs of inward feelings. The start of fear, the suppressed, controlled tensity of pain, the beat of happy muscles in others, had to be perceived and compared with my own experiences before I could trace them back to the intangible soul of another. Groping, uncertain, I at last found my identity, and after seeing my thoughts and feelings repeated in others, I gradually constructed my world of men and of God. As I read and study, I find that this is what the rest of the race has done. Man looks within himself and in time finds the measure and the meaning of the universe.