Brodolomi

“Ponekad se pitam da li i danas moj način čitanja podseća više na g. de Germanta nego na čitanja savremenih kritičara. Knjiga je za mene i dalje živa celina, s kojom se upoznajem od prvog reda, koju pokorno slušam, kojoj dajem za pravo dok sam u njenom društvu, ne birajući i ne raspravljajući se, Kad čujem kako g. Fage kaže u svojim „Kritičkim esejima” da je prvi deo „Kapetana Frakasa” divan, a da je drugi dosadan, da je u „Čiča Goriju” sve što se odnosi na Gorija prvorazredno, a sve što se odnosi na Rastinjaka slabo, čudim se kao kad bi neko rekao o okolini Komberea da je ružna kada se pogleda s Mezagliza, a da je lepa kad se vidi sa Germantovih. Kad g., Fage nastavlja govoreći da ljubitelji ne čitaju „Kapetana Frakasa” posle prvog toma, ja te ljubitelje mogu samo da žalim, jer sam toliko voleo drugi tom, ali kad doda da je prvi tom pisan za ljubitelje, a drugi za đake, moje žaljenje ljubitelja se pretvara u samoprezir, jer otkrivam koliko sam ostao đak. Konačno, kad uverava da je Gotje sa najvećom mogućom dosadom napisao drugi tom, toliko sam iznenađen da je pisanje štiva koje će kasnije toliko zabavljati moglo da bude dosadno.”
― Marcel Proust, Contre Sainte-Beuve

“Sećam se da sam u jednom od stotine romana koje sam to leto pročitao našao jednog preterano strasnog junaka s gustim obrvama i toliko sam zaželeo da ličim na njega po spoljašnjosti (moralno sam se osećao sasvim isti on), da sam posmatrajući svoje obrve pred ogledalom došao na misao da ih malo podšišam, da bi mi porasle gušće.”
― Leo Tolstoy, Childhood, Boyhood, Youth

“If I had to hold up the most heavily guarded bank in Europe and I could choose my partners in crime, I’d take a gang of five poets, no question about it. Five real poets, Apollonian or Dionysian, but always real, ready to live and die like poets. No one in the world is as brave as a poet. No one in the world faces disaster with more dignity and understanding. They may seem weak, these readers of Guido Cavalcanti and Arnaut Daniel, these readers of the deserter Archilochus who picked his way across a field of bones. And they work in the void of the word, like astronauts marooned on dead-end planets, in deserts where there are no readers or publishers, just grammatical constructions or stupid songs sung not by men but by ghosts. In the guild of writers they’re the greatest and least sought-after jewel. When some deluded kid decides at sixteen or seventeen to be a poet, it’s a guaranteed family tragedy. Gay Jew, half black, half Bolshevik: the Siberia of the poet’s exile tends to bring shame on his family too. Readers of Baudelaire don’t have it easy in high school, or with their schoolmates, much less with their teachers. But their fragility is deceptive. So is their humor and the fickleness of their declarations of love. Behind these shadowy fronts are probably the toughest people in the world, and definitely the bravest. Not for nothing are they descended from Orpheus, who set the stroke for the Argonauts and who descended into hell and came up again, less alive than before his feat, but still alive. If I had to hold up the most heavily fortified bank in America, I’d take a gang of poets. The attempt would probably end in disaster, but it would be beautiful.”
― Roberto Bolaño, Between Parentheses: Essays, Articles and Speeches, 1998-2003

“She wanted to die, but she also wanted to live in Paris.”
― Gustave Flaubert, Madame Bovary