Pasaje preferate din carti!

"Oh ! bărbatule ! c

"Rosu si negru" de Stendhal

"In acel moment, Julien apasa pe diferitele coarde ale sufletului lui Mathilde cu tot calmul unui pianist priceput care loveste clapele pianului..."

"Mathilde aparu in mijlocul oamenilor invesmantata in haine lungi de doliu si, la sfarsitul slujbei, arunca in multime cateva mii de monezi de cate cinci franci.

Ramasa singura cu Fouque, tinu sa ingroape capul iubitului ei cu propriile ei maini. Fougue simtea ca innebuneste de durere.

Prin grija lui Mathilde, aceasta grota salbatica fu impodobita cu marmura sculptata cu mare cheltuiala in Italia.

Doamna de Renal isi tinu fagaduaiala. Nu incerca nici intr-un fel sa-si curme viata, dar dupa trei zile de la moartea lui Julien, muri si ea, imbratisandu-si copiii."

"Te-am purtat

Portretul lui Dorian Grey - Oscar wilde

"..cred ca omul ar trai viata mai deplin si total, daca ar da forma fiecarui sentiment, expresie fiecarui gand, realitate fiecarui vis..."

Let us consider letters--how they come at breakfast, and at night, with

their yellow stamps and their green stamps, immortalized by the

postmark--for to see one's own envelope on another's table is to realize

how soon deeds sever and become alien. Then at last the power of the

mind to quit the body is manifest, and perhaps we fear or hate or wish

annihilated this phantom of ourselves, lying on the table. Still, there

are letters that merely say how dinner's at seven; others ordering coal;

making appointments. The hand in them is scarcely perceptible, let alone

the voice or the scowl. Ah, but when the post knocks and the letter

comes always the miracle seems repeated--speech attempted. Venerable are

letters, infinitely brave, forlorn, and lost.

Life would split asunder without them. "Come to tea, come to dinner,

what's the truth of the story? have you heard the news? life in the

capital is gay; the Russian dancers...." These are our stays and props.

These lace our days together and make of life a perfect globe. And yet,

and yet ... when we go to dinner, when pressing finger-tips we hope to

meet somewhere soon, a doubt insinuates itself; is this the way to spend

our days? the rare, the limited, so soon dealt out to us--drinking tea?

dining out? And the notes accumulate. And the telephones ring. And

everywhere we go wires and tubes surround us to carry the voices that

try to penetrate before the last card is dealt and the days are over.

"Try to penetrate," for as we lift the cup, shake the hand, express the

hope, something whispers, Is this all? Can I never know, share, be

certain? Am I doomed all my days to write letters, send voices, which

fall upon the tea-table, fade upon the passage, making appointments,

while life dwindles, to come and dine? Yet letters are venerable; and

the telephone valiant, for the journey is a lonely one, and if bound

together by notes and telephones we went in company, perhaps--who

knows?--we might talk by the way.

Well, people have tried. Byron wrote letters. So did Cowper. For

centuries the writing-desk has contained sheets fit precisely for the

communications of friends. Masters of language, poets of long ages, have

turned from the sheet that endures to the sheet that perishes, pushing

aside the tea-tray, drawing close to the fire (for letters are written

when the dark presses round a bright red cave), and addressed themselves

to the task of reaching, touching, penetrating the individual heart.

Were it possible! But words have been used too often; touched and

turned, and left exposed to the dust of the street. The words we seek

hang close to the tree. We come at dawn and find them sweet beneath the

leaf.

***

"Life is wicked--life is detestable," cried Rose Shaw.

The strange thing about life is that though the nature of it must have

been apparent to every one for hundreds of years, no one has left any

adequate account of it. The streets of London have their map; but our

passions are uncharted. What are you going to meet if you turn this

corner?

Virginia Woolf - 'Jacob's Room'

ai dat copy/paste ;)

Intelepciunea nebunului - Feuchtwanger

Si apoi, deodata, un majordom fastacit si emotionat anunta: "A sosit contele Bregy!" iar Girardin se napusti in hol si-l vazu pe Fernand, pe Fernand pe care-l cunostea si care totusi era cu totul altul, ars de soare, calit, plin de barbatie. Oare acesta era fiul lui, cre mai ieri avuse obrajii fragezi? Si Girardin uita de toate planurile sale, isi imbratisa fiul, il stranse la piept, il saruta si balbai: "Fernand!" apoi: "Tu esti?" si: "Fernand, dragul meu Fernand, fiul meu!"

Fernand se gandise si el de multe ori cum sa se poarte cu tatal sau. Marchizul era din cap pana-n picioare un om al trecutului, in timp ce el, Fernand, era un om al prezentului, ba al viitorului, foarte maturizat, iar tatal sau era pentru el, un copil iubit, indaratnic, care vroia mereu sa-l contrazica. Hotarase sa se poarte cu ingaduinta, dar fara a permite ca legatura atat de slaba dintre ei sa devina mai stransa. Acum insa, aici, in Ermenonvilleul atat de familiar al copilariei sale, cand il vazu pe tatal sau mult mai batran decat si-l inchipuise, si cand citi pe fata lui emotionata, fericita, urmele suferintei celor sapte ani, nu mai simti nici el decat dragoste.

"Toate urmele acestea ale trecutului parca-l inhatau si-i spuneau: Nu, n-ai sa scapi de noi. N-ai sa te schimbi. O sa ramai acelasi care ai fost: sovaitor, vesnic nemultumit de tine insuti, cu zadarnice incercari de indreptare, cu caderi si cu vesnica asteptare a fericirii care nu ti-a fost harazita si pe care n-ai s-o poti avea."

"Nimeni nu se multumeste cu bunurile pe care le are, in schimb, fiecare e multumit de inteligenta sa."

"Iarta-ma nu dupa vrednicia mea, ci dupa marinimia ta"

'Toate familiile fericite se aseamana intre ele. Fiecare familie, insa, este nefericita in felul ei."

Anna Karenina - Lev Tolstoi

Virginia Woolf - 'Orlando'

[...] 'I have sought happiness through many ages and not found it; fame and missed it; love and not known it; life--and behold, death is better. I have known many men and many women,' she continued; 'none have I understood. It is better that I should lie at peace here with only the sky above me--as the gipsy told me years ago. That was in Turkey.' [..].]

***

[...]

Indeed, she was falling asleep with the wet feathers on her face and her ear pressed to the ground when she heard, deep within, some hammer on an anvil, or was it a heart beating? Tick-tock, tick-tock, so it hammered, so it beat, the anvil, or the heart in the middle of the earth; until, as she listened, she thought it changed to the trot of a horse's hoofs; one, two, three, four, she counted; then she heard a stumble; then, as it came nearer and nearer, she could hear the crack of a twig and the suck of the wet bog in its hoofs. The horse was almost on her. She sat upright. Towering dark against the yellow-slashed sky of dawn, with the plovers rising and falling about him, she saw a man on horseback. He started. The horse stopped.

'Madam,' the man cried, leaping to the ground, 'you're hurt!'

'I'm dead, sir!' she replied.

A few minutes later, they became engaged.

[...]

"Doamne, da-mi seninatatea de a accepta lucrurile pe care nu le pot schimba,

curajul de a le schimba pe cele pe care le pot schimba

si intelepciunea de a face diferenta dintre ele..." - Sf. Francisc din Assisi

Un timpit mai mare ca mine nu exista. Sa faci 13 ani de temnita pentru un popor de idioti. Ma simt asemeni unui vultur trist care inaltat la zenit urineaza asupra veacului XX cu un dispret cretin

P.Tutea