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“Where is it, Rudolf?” she whispers, pressing herself against me. “Tell me where it is! Has a piece of me
been left behind everywhere? In all the mirrors I have looked into? I have seen lots of them, countless ones!
Am I scattered everywhere in them? Has each of them taken some part of me? A thin impression, a thin slice
of me? Have I been shaved down by mirrors like a piece of wood by a carpenter’s plane? What is still left of
me?”
I take her by the shoulders. “All of you is still here,” I say. “On-the contrary, mirrors add something. They
make it visible and give it to you—a bit of space, a lighted bit of our-self.”
“Myself?” She continues to cling to my hand. “But suppose it is not that way? Suppose myself is buried all
over in thousands and thousands of mirrors? How can I get it back? Oh, I can never get it back! It is lost!
Lost! It has been rubbed away like a statue that no longer has a face. Where is my face? Where is my first
face? The one before all the mirrors? The one before they began to steal me!”
“No one has stolen you,” I say in desperation. “Mirrors don’t steal. They only reflect.”
― The Black Obelisk
been left behind everywhere? In all the mirrors I have looked into? I have seen lots of them, countless ones!
Am I scattered everywhere in them? Has each of them taken some part of me? A thin impression, a thin slice
of me? Have I been shaved down by mirrors like a piece of wood by a carpenter’s plane? What is still left of
me?”
I take her by the shoulders. “All of you is still here,” I say. “On-the contrary, mirrors add something. They
make it visible and give it to you—a bit of space, a lighted bit of our-self.”
“Myself?” She continues to cling to my hand. “But suppose it is not that way? Suppose myself is buried all
over in thousands and thousands of mirrors? How can I get it back? Oh, I can never get it back! It is lost!
Lost! It has been rubbed away like a statue that no longer has a face. Where is my face? Where is my first
face? The one before all the mirrors? The one before they began to steal me!”
“No one has stolen you,” I say in desperation. “Mirrors don’t steal. They only reflect.”
― The Black Obelisk
“Ще бъда стар, ще бъда много стар,
ако остана след погромите, разбира се,
като окъсан рибен буквар
модел хиляда осемстотин и четирийсе.
Тъй както малките деца разлистват
и почват със картинките от края,
така и мене днеска ми се иска
за бъдещето да си помечтая.
Защо пък не? — В мечтите няма цензура,
мечтите греят с синкава прозрачност.
А по-добре е да подгониш вятъра,
отколкото да седнеш и да плачеш.
Тогава аз ще имам син,
синът ще бъде двадесетгодишен.”
―
ако остана след погромите, разбира се,
като окъсан рибен буквар
модел хиляда осемстотин и четирийсе.
Тъй както малките деца разлистват
и почват със картинките от края,
така и мене днеска ми се иска
за бъдещето да си помечтая.
Защо пък не? — В мечтите няма цензура,
мечтите греят с синкава прозрачност.
А по-добре е да подгониш вятъра,
отколкото да седнеш и да плачеш.
Тогава аз ще имам син,
синът ще бъде двадесетгодишен.”
―
“I will not accept boundaries; appearances cannot contain me; I choke! To bleed in this agony, and to live it profoundly, is the second duty.
The mind is patient and adjusts itself, it likes to play; but the heart grows savage and will not condescend to play; it stifles and rushes to tear apart the nets of necessity.”
― Askees. Salvatores Dei
The mind is patient and adjusts itself, it likes to play; but the heart grows savage and will not condescend to play; it stifles and rushes to tear apart the nets of necessity.”
― Askees. Salvatores Dei
“„Мъжът рядко цени както трябва жената, поне докато не се е лишил от нея. Той не си дава сметка за недоловимата топлота, излъчвана от женския пол, докато е обкръжен от нея; обаче отнемат ли му я, започва да усеща все по-голяма празнота в съществуването си и да изпитва някакъв смътен глад за нещо тъй неопределено, че не може да каже какво е то. Ако другарите му нямат повече опит от самия него, те поклащат със съмнение глави и му дават силно очистително. Но гладът не минава, а се засилва; той загубва интерес към всекидневието си и става мрачен, а един ден; когато тази празнота е вече непоносима, изведнъж настъпва миг на прозрение.”
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Ira’s 2025 Year in Books
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