“Their life, or rather their compensation for a lost life, their main task and uncertain refuge, their love and hatred, hopeless love and impotent hatred, their medicine, their sickness and death—was drink. Drink and its powerful, deceptive, short-lived effect. Almost all of them drank, copiously and furiously, with no order or measure…. It was for drink that they worked, lived and died. They thought, dreamed and talked about it, they fed on it, breathed it. They marched and set up camp, left and returned, conversed and stayed silent, sang and wept with drink, in it they found curses and prayers, tenderness and bitterness. They drank in the garrisons and winter quarters from Aleppo and Baghdad to Bihać in Bosnia, they drank as they prepared every campaign, in the course of the battle and after it, resting or treating their wounds; they drank on an empty stomach, with food and after it, before sleep and during brief spells of wakefulness when roused by bad dreams and tormented by indigestion…. They drank mercilessly, unstintingly, greedily, downing it in one or savoring it slowly, in company, in wild sprees, or each on his own, secretly and silently. They got into debt and disgrace, lied and quarreled because of drink, they stole it and hid it, and then at night, furtively and soundlessly, poured it into themselves; but, equally, they would share the last drop with a good friend, because a passion is sweeter when shared…. Drink made them capable of anything, of theft and violence, deceit and vileness, as well as valor in war or generous acts in everyday life; it buoyed and supported them, but it also poisoned and corroded them, and from day to day it changed them, in the way that drink always changes people: never for the better.”
“As soon as he sat down in front of the stretched canvas, he forgot the painter and the rest of the word. For just a moment or two he thought about his position, about painting in general, each time with the same wonderment. Painting was not ordinary work, nor was being painted an unimportant business. It was a miracle. You were born again, came into being, grew, rejoiced, suffered, fell ill, grew old, everything, but you did not die, on the contrary, you endured in your transience, almost eternal, firm and real as no one who knew you saw you but as you had secretly always wished to be.”
“Beauty. The mysterious, elusive, luxurious beauty of a woman, which demanded to be painted. Lucky the man who succeeds in this, and luckier still the one who is able to see in that painting what was there, and not stars and clouds and a mad, dangerous delusion! Beauty, the greatest of all human deceptions: if you do not grasp it—it is not there, if you try to take it—it ceases to exist. And we do not know whether it attracts us with its power or whether the power comes from within us and is broken, like water against a stone, where it encounters beauty.”
“These men would never grasp the simple truth that the female being sitting before them, attracting them so irresistibly, was not here for them, and was not merely what they saw and desired: she was a whole, complex person, with specific characteristics and needs, and her own soul, at the end of the day. No one asked her what she thought and felt, what she believed, what she expected from life, they simply stretched out their hands toward her throat and waist, as if drowning. Some pretended to be interested in her music, others whispered verses to her, some offered money and property, others rolled their eyes, sighing, as they spoke of love stronger than death. But they were all the same; you could not trust even the most restrained and decent among them; no one wanted anything from her for her sake, they all wanted the same thing—her, her herself, naked, spread out like a carpet, for them to tread underfoot and sully. They all wished to get close to her, unbearably close, to open her up and exploit her like a mountain rich in ores, to rummage and sift through her like the sandy floor of a gold-bearing river.”
“If we all had the opportunity, courage and strength to transform just a part of our imaginings and most ardent desires into reality, at just one moment of our lives, it would be immediately clear to the whole world and to ourselves who we are, what we are, what we are like and what we are capable of becoming and being. Fortunately, for most of us, that opportunity never arises and we never cross from imagination and transient irrational thoughts to deeds and actions. But if, by some misfortune, it does happen to someone, that someone finds that we are all merciless judges.”