Niloo

“There are no happy endings.
Endings are the saddest part,
So just give me a happy middle
And a very happy start.”
― Shel Silverstein, Every Thing on It

“What really knocks me out is a book that, when you're all done reading it, you wish the author that wrote it was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it. That doesn't happen much, though.”
― J.D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye

“شاید خواننده تعجب کند از اینکه اینطور صریح از بی مایگی خودم حرف می زنم،اما باید به یادش بیاورم که صراحت فضیلتی است که بیش از هر کس برازنده آدم مرده است. در دوران حیات، چشمهای فضول افکار عمومی، تعارض منافع، جدال بی امان حرص و آز، آدم را ناچار میکند ژنده پاره های کهنه اش را مخفی کند، وصله ها و شکاف ها را از این و آن بپوشاند، و افشاگریهایی را که پیش وجدان خودش می کند،از عالم و آدم پنهان نگاه دارد. بزرگترین امتیاز این کار وقتی معلوم می شود که آدم در عین فریب دادن دیگران خود را هم فریب می دهد و به این ترتیب خودش را از شرمساری، که وضعیت بسیار عذاب آوری است و همچنین از ریاکاری که از معایب بسیار زشت است، معاف می کند. اما در عالم مرگ، چقدر چیزها متفاوت است، چقدر آدم آسوده است! چه آزادیی! چه شکوهی دارد آن دم که خرقه را دور می اندازی، پیرهن پر زرق و برق را به مزبله پرت می کنی، خودت را لایه لایه باز می کنی، رنگ و بزک را می شویی، و رک و راست اعتراف می کنی که چه بودی و چه نتوانستی باشی. آخر، از همه چیز گذشته، نه همسایه ای داری، نه دوستی، نه دشمنی، نه آشنایی، نه غریبه ای، نه مخاطبی، مطلقاً هیچ. همین که پا به قلمرو مرگ می گذاری نگاه نافذ و قضاوتگر افکار عمومی قدرتش را از دست می دهد. البته انکار نمی کنم که این نگاه گاهی اوقات به این طرف هم سر می کشد و داوری خودش را می کند، اما ما آدمهای مرده، چندان اهمیتی به این داوریها نمی دهیم. شما که زنده اید باور کنید، در این دنیا هیچ چیز به وسعت بی اعتنایی ما نیست.”
― Machado de Assis, Memórias póstumas de Brás Cubas

“Why the devil couldn’t it have been blue?” I said to myself.
And this thought—one of the most profound ever made since the discovery of butterflies—consoled me for my misdeed and reconciled me with myself. I stood there, looking at the corpse with, I confess, a certain sympathy. The butterfly had probably come out of the woods, well-fed and happy, into the sunlight of a beautiful morning. Modest in its demands on life, it had been content to fly about and exhibit its special beauty under the vast cupola of a blue sky, al sky that is always blue for those that have wings. It flew through my open window, entered by room, and found me there. I suppose it had never seen a man; therefore it did not know what a man was. It described an infinite number of circles about my body and saw that I moved, that I had eyes, arms, legs, a divine aspect, and colossal stature. Then it said to itself, “This is probably the maker of butterflies.” The idea overwhelmed it, terrified it; but fear, which is sometimes stimulating, suggested the best way for it to please its creator was to kiss him on the forehead, and so it kissed me on the forehead. When I brushed it away, it rested on the windowpane, saw from there the portrait of my father, and quite possibly perceived a half-truth, i.e., that the man in the picture was the father of the creator of butterflies, and it flew to beg his mercy.
Then a blow from a towel ended the adventure. Neither the blue sky’s immensity, nor the flowers’ joy, nor the green leaves’ splendor could protect the creature against a face towel, a few square inches fo cheap linin. Note how excellent it is to be superior to butterflies! For, even if it had been blue, its life would not have been safe; I might have pierced it with a pin and kept it to delight my eyes. It was not blue. This last thought consoled me again. I placed the nail of my middle finger against my thumb, gave the cadaver a flip, and it fell into the garden. It was high time; the provident ants were already gathering around…Yes, I stand by my first idea: I think that it would have been better for the butterfly if it had been born blue.”
― Machado de Assis, Memórias póstumas de Brás Cubas