Friday, January 12, 2018
Thursday, January 11, 2018
Tuesday, January 9, 2018
Monday, January 8, 2018
Monday, January 1, 2018
Saturday, December 30, 2017
Friday, December 29, 2017
Tuesday, December 26, 2017
Monday, December 25, 2017
Sunday, December 24, 2017
Thursday, December 21, 2017
Sunday, December 17, 2017
Wednesday, December 13, 2017
Sunday, December 10, 2017
Thursday, November 23, 2017
Tuesday, November 21, 2017
Thursday, November 16, 2017
Wednesday, November 15, 2017
Monday, November 13, 2017
Sunday, November 12, 2017
Saturday, November 11, 2017
Friday, November 10, 2017
Tuesday, November 7, 2017
Monday, November 6, 2017
Sunday, November 5, 2017
Wednesday, November 1, 2017
Tuesday, October 31, 2017
According to my calculations there are two or three new fictional characters baptized on earth every second. As a result, I am always unsure of myself when it comes time for me to enter that vast crowd of John the Baptists. But what can I do? I have to call my characters something, don't I? Well, this time, just to make it clear my heroine belongs to me and me alone (and means more to me than anyone ever has), I am giving her a name no woman has ever had before: Tamina. I picture her as tall and beautiful, thirty-three, and a native of Prague.
I can see her now, walking down a street in a provincial town in the west of Europe. Yes, you're right. Prague, which is far away, I call by its name, while the town my story takes place in I leave anonymous. It goes against all rules of perspective, but you'll just have to put up with it.
Tamina has a job as a waitress in a small café belonging to a married couple. The café brought in so little money the husband took a job somewhere else and they hired Tamina to take his place. The difference between the miserable salary he earned at his new job and the even more miserable salary they gave Tamina was their only profit...
All she has left of her husband is his passport picture. The other pictures remain behind in their appropriated apartment in Prague. Every day she looks at the grimy, dog-eared picture showing her husband full face (like a criminal in a mug shot). It is not a good likeness. Every day she spends some time in a sort of spiritual exercise, trying to remember what he looked like in profile, then half profile, then quarter profile, going over the lines of his nose and chin, and every day she is horrified at new fuzzy spots where her memory hesitates about which way to go.
During these exercises she tried to evoke his skin, its color, and all its minor blemishes: tiny warts, protuberances, freckles, veins. It was difficult, almost impossible. The colors her memory used were unrealistic. They could not do justice to human skin. As a result, she developed her own special technique of calling him to mind. Whenever she sat across from a man, she would use his head as a kind of sculptor's armature. She would concentrate all her attention on him and remodel his face inside her head, darkening the complexion, adding freckles and warts, scaling down the ears...
Why do I picture her with a golden ring in her mouth?
M. Kundera, The Book of Laughter and Forgetting
I can see her now, walking down a street in a provincial town in the west of Europe. Yes, you're right. Prague, which is far away, I call by its name, while the town my story takes place in I leave anonymous. It goes against all rules of perspective, but you'll just have to put up with it.
Tamina has a job as a waitress in a small café belonging to a married couple. The café brought in so little money the husband took a job somewhere else and they hired Tamina to take his place. The difference between the miserable salary he earned at his new job and the even more miserable salary they gave Tamina was their only profit...
All she has left of her husband is his passport picture. The other pictures remain behind in their appropriated apartment in Prague. Every day she looks at the grimy, dog-eared picture showing her husband full face (like a criminal in a mug shot). It is not a good likeness. Every day she spends some time in a sort of spiritual exercise, trying to remember what he looked like in profile, then half profile, then quarter profile, going over the lines of his nose and chin, and every day she is horrified at new fuzzy spots where her memory hesitates about which way to go.
During these exercises she tried to evoke his skin, its color, and all its minor blemishes: tiny warts, protuberances, freckles, veins. It was difficult, almost impossible. The colors her memory used were unrealistic. They could not do justice to human skin. As a result, she developed her own special technique of calling him to mind. Whenever she sat across from a man, she would use his head as a kind of sculptor's armature. She would concentrate all her attention on him and remodel his face inside her head, darkening the complexion, adding freckles and warts, scaling down the ears...
Why do I picture her with a golden ring in her mouth?
M. Kundera, The Book of Laughter and Forgetting
Sunday, October 29, 2017
Thursday, October 26, 2017
Wednesday, October 25, 2017
Od 2009, narednih sedam godina mnogo sam sanjala jednu osobu, dva sna drzim u secanju, prvi, kada smo se, bezeci od vlasti jednog totalitarnog sistema u dalekoj buducnosti, koji nam je branio da budemo zajedno, spustali tunelima u obliku tobogana, drzeci se za ruke i drugi, kada sam ga, stigavsi u njegov grad, cekala u njegovoj sobi i videla meni poznatu odecu koju nosi i mogla da je dodirnem I kada se pojavio na vratima, tiho sam rekla: "Ne plasi se, ja sam unutra." Oba su snova imala radnju dovoljno dugu za dve kratke price. Stalno sam imala nevolje s telefonom jer me bilo zao da uklonim stare poruke.
Tuesday, October 24, 2017
Monday, October 23, 2017
Friday, October 20, 2017
Friday, October 13, 2017
Thursday, October 12, 2017
Wednesday, October 11, 2017
Saturday, October 7, 2017
Friday, October 6, 2017
Wednesday, October 4, 2017
Tuesday, October 3, 2017
Monday, October 2, 2017
Tuesday, September 26, 2017
Monday, September 25, 2017
Sunday, September 24, 2017
Wednesday, September 13, 2017
Tuesday, September 5, 2017
Monday, September 4, 2017
Sunday, September 3, 2017
Thursday, August 31, 2017
Saturday, August 26, 2017
Sunday, August 20, 2017
Saturday, August 19, 2017
Sunday, August 13, 2017
http://m.ebay.co.uk/itm/132246182346?_trksid=p2385738.m2548.l4275&_mwBanner=1
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Thursday, August 10, 2017
Wednesday, August 9, 2017
Tuesday, August 8, 2017
Saturday, August 5, 2017
Saturday, July 29, 2017
Sunday, July 23, 2017
Thursday, July 20, 2017
Tuesday, July 18, 2017
ove tri knjige nisam citala ali zvuce dobro
https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Botchan
https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kokoro
https://www.penguin.co.uk/books/186587/the-confession-of-a-child-of-the-century/
Saturday, July 1, 2017
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Woman_in_the_Dunes
The woman brought in the meal: clam soup with boiled fish. Very much a shore meal, it seemed. That was all right but as he began to eat she opened a large paper umbrella and put it over him.
The woman brought in the meal: clam soup with boiled fish. Very much a shore meal, it seemed. That was all right but as he began to eat she opened a large paper umbrella and put it over him.
“What’s that thing for?” He wondered if it were some kind of
custom of the region.
“Well, if I don’t put this up, the sand will get in your
food.”
“How is that?” he said, looking up in surprise at the ceiling,
where, however, there were no holes at all.
She followed his eyes to the ceiling.”The sand sits in
everywhere. Almost an inch piles up if I don’t sweep it up every day.”
“Is the roof faulty?”
“Yes, pretty much so. But even if the thatching was brand-new,
the sand would sift in anyway. It’s really terrible. It’s worse than a wood
borer.”
“A wood borer?”
“An insect that eats holes in wood.”
“That’s probably a termite, isn’t it?”
“No, no. It’s about this big… with a hard skin.”
“Ah. Well, it’s a long-horned saw beetle then.”
“A saw beetle?”
“Long whiskers and reddish, isn’t it?”
“No, it’s sort of bronze-colored and shaped like a grain of
rice.”
“I see. Then it’s an iridescent beetle.”
“If you let it go on beams like these rot away to nothing,
you know.”
“You mean the iridescent beetle?”
“No, the sand.”
“Why?”
“It gets in from from everywhere. On days when the wind
direction is bad, it gets up under the roof, and if I didn’t sweep it away it
would soon pile up so heavy that the ceiling boards wouldn’t hold it.”
“Hmm. yes, I can see it wouldn’t do to let the sand
accumulate in the ceiling. But isn’t it funny to say that it rots the beams?”
“No, they do rot.”
“But sand is essentially dry, you know.”
“Anyway, it rots them. If you leave sand on brand-new wooden
clogs they fall apart in half a month. they’re just dissolved, they say, so it
must be true.”
“I don’t understand the reason.”
“Wood rots, and the sand rots with it. I even heard that
soil rich enough to grow cucumbers came out of the roof boards of a house that
had been buried under the sand.”
“Impossible, he exclaimed rudely, making a wry face. He felt
that his own personal concept of sand has been defiled by her ignorance.”I know
a little about sand myself. Let me tell you. Sand moves around like this all
year long. Its flow is its life. It absolutely never stops-anywhere. Whether in
water or air, it moves about free and unrestricted. So, usually, ordinary
living things are unable to endure life in it, and this goes for bacteria too.
How shall I put it… sand represents purity, cleanliness. Maybe it serves a
preservative function, but there is certainly no question of its rotting
anything. And, what’s more, dear lady, to begin with, sand is a respectable
mineral. It couldn’t possibly rot away.”
She stiffened and fell silent. Under the protection of the
umbrella which she was holding, the man, as if hurried, finished eating without
a word. On the surface of the umbrella so much sand has collected he could have
written in it with his finger.
The sky was heavy with stars.
( The Woman in the Dunes, Kobo Abe)
Friday, June 23, 2017
Tuesday, June 20, 2017
Sunday, June 18, 2017
Tuesday, June 13, 2017
Sunday, June 11, 2017
R. Tagore, Come As You Are
Come as you are; do not loiter over
your toilet.
If your braided hair has loosened if
the parting of your hair be not straight,
if the ribbons of your bodice be not
fastened, do not mind.
Come as you are; do not loiter over
your toilet.
Come, with quick steps over the
grass.
If the raddle come from your feet
because of the dew, of the rings of bells
upon your feet slacken, if pearls drop
out of your chain, do not mind.
Come, with quick steps over the
grass.
Do you see the clouds wrapping the
sky?
Flocks of cranes fly up from the
further river-bank and fitful gusts of
wind rush over the heath.
The anxious cattle run to their stalls
in the village.
Do you see the clouds wrapping the
sky?
In vain you light your toilet lamp
--it flickers and goes out in the
wind.
Who can know that your eyelids
have not been touched with lamp-
black? For your eyes are darker
than rain-clouds.
In vain you light your toilet lamp--
it goes out.
Come as you are; do not loiter over
your toilet.
If the wreath is not woven, who
cares; if the wrist-chain had not been
linked, let it be.
The sky is overcast with clouds--it
is late.
Come as you are; do not loiter over
your toilet.
Ivan Ivanych came out of the cabin, dived in with a loud splash and swam in the rain, making broad sweeps with his arms and sending out waves with white lilies bobbing about on them. He swam right out to the middle of the reach and dived. A moment later he popped up somewhere else and swam on, continually trying to dive right to the bottom.
'Oh, good God,' he kept saying with great relish. 'Good God...'
He reached the mill, said a few words to the peasants, then he turned and floated on his back in the middle with his face under the rain. Burkin and Alyokhin were already dressed and ready to leave, but he kept on swimming and diving.
'Oh, dear God,' he said. 'Oh, God!'
'Now that's enough,' Burkin shouted.
(Gooseberries, A. Chekhov)
'Oh, good God,' he kept saying with great relish. 'Good God...'
He reached the mill, said a few words to the peasants, then he turned and floated on his back in the middle with his face under the rain. Burkin and Alyokhin were already dressed and ready to leave, but he kept on swimming and diving.
'Oh, dear God,' he said. 'Oh, God!'
'Now that's enough,' Burkin shouted.
(Gooseberries, A. Chekhov)
Tuesday, June 6, 2017
Thursday, June 1, 2017
Wednesday, May 31, 2017
Saturday, May 27, 2017
…and when we came to the first intersection I said,”Well,
good-bye, I’ve got to be going,” but she said she was going in the same
direction, and when we got to the end of Ludmila Street I said,”Well, good-bye,
I’ve got to be going home,”and she said she was going in the same direction, so
on we went, and I purposely walked all the way to Sacrifice and held out my
hand to her and said,”I’ve got to be going home now,” but she said she was
going in the same direction, and on we went until we came to the Dam of
Eternity, and I said I was home now and we’d have to say good-bye, and when I
stopped at the gas lamp in front of my door and said,”Well, good-bye now, this
is where I live,”she said she lived there too, so I unlocked the door and
motioned for her to go in ahead of me, but she refused and told me to go in
first, and since the hall was dark, I did, and then I went down the stairs and
into the yard and up to the door of my room, and when I’d unlocked it, I turned
and said,”Well, good-bye, this is my room,”and she said it was her room too,
and she came in and shared my bed with me, and when I woke up in a bed still
warm with her, she was gone. But the next day, and every day thereafter, the
moment I set foot in the yard I saw her sitting on the steps in front of my
door and some white boards and sawed-off beams lying under the window, and when
I unlocked the door, she would leap up like a cat and scamper into my room,
neither of us saying a word. Then I went for beer with my big, five-liter
pitcher, and the Gypsy girl would light the old cast-iron stove, which boomed
even with the door open, because the room had once been a blacksmith’s shop and
had a high ceiling and a huge fireplace, and she would make supper, which was
always the same potato goulash with
horse salami, then sit by the stove, feeding it with wood, and it was so hot
that her lap glowed gold and gold sweat covered her hands, neck and constantly
changing profile, while I lay on the bed, getting up only to quench my thirst
from the pitcher, after which I handed it to her, and she would hold the giant
pitcher in both hands and drink in such a way that I heard her throat move,
heard it moaning quietly like a pump in the distance. At first, I thought she
put so much wood on the fire just to win me over, but then I realized it was in
her, the fire was in her, she couldn’t live without fire.
So we went on living together even though I never really knew her name and she never knew or wanted or
needed to know mine; we went on meeting every night, even though I never gave
her the keys and sometimes stayed out late, until midnight, but the moment I
unlocked the main door I would see a shadow slip past, and there she was,
striking a match, setting fire to some paper, and a flame would sputter and
flare in the stove, which she kept going with the month’s supply of wood she’d
laid in under the window. And later in the evening, while we ate our silent
supper, I would turn on the light bulb and watch her break her bread as if she
were taking Communion and gather up all the crumbs from her dress and toss them
reverently into the fire. Then we switched off the bulb and lay on our backs,
looking up at the ceiling and the shimmer of shadow and light, and the trip to
the pitcher on the table was like wading through an aquarium filled with algae
and other marine flora or stalking through a thick wood on a moonlit night, and
as I drank I always turned and looked at my naked Gypsy girl lying there
looking back at me, the whites of her
eyes glowing in the dark-we looked at each other more in the dark than by the
light of day. I always loved twilight: it was the only time I had the feeling
that something important could happen. All things were more beautiful bathed in
twilight, all streets, all squares, and all the people walking through them; I
even had the feeling that I was a handsome young man, and I liked looking at
myself in the mirror, watching myself in the shop windows as I strode along,
and even when I touched my face, I felt no wrinkles at my mouth or forehead.
Yes, with twilight comes beauty. By the flames in the stove’s open door the
Gypsy girl stood up, naked, and as she moved, I saw her body outlined in a
yellow halo like the halo emanating from the Ignatius of Loyola cemented to the
to the façade of the church in Charles Square, and when she added some wood to
the fire and came back and lay down on top of me, she turned her head to have a
look at my profile and ran her finger around my nose and mouth. She hardly ever
kissed me, nor I her, we said everything with our hands and then lay there
looking at the sparks and flickers in the battered old cast-iron stove, curls
of light from the death of wood. All we wanted was to go on living like that
forever. It was as if we had said everything there was to say to each other, as
if we had been born together and never parted.
During the last autumn of the war I bought some blue
wrapping paper, a ball of twine, and glue, and while the Gypsy girl kept my
glass filled with beer, I spent a whole Sunday on the floor making a kite,
balancing it carefully so it would rise, and I tacked on a long tail of tiny paper
doves strung together by the Gypsy girl under my tutelage, and then we went up
to Round Bluff, and after flinging the kite to the heavens and letting the cord
run free for a while, I held it back and gave it a few tugs to make it
straighten up and stand motionless in the sky
so that only the tail rippled, S-like, and the Gypsy girl covered her
face to her eyes, eyes wide with amazement. Then we sat down and I handed it to
her, but she cried out that it would carry her up to heaven-she could feel herself
ascending like the Virgin Mary-so I put my hands on her shoulders and said if
that was the case we’d go together, but she gave me back the ball of twine and
we just sat there, her head on my shoulder, and suddenly i got the idea to send
a message, and handed the kite to the Gypsy girl again, but again she froze and
said it would fly away with her and she’d never see me again, so I pushed the
stick with the twine into the ground, tore a page out of my memo pad, and
attached it to the tail, and as soon as the twine was back in my hands, she
started screaming and reaching after the message as it jerked its way up to the
sky, each burst of wind traveling through my fingers to my whole body, I even
felt the message making contact with the tip of the kite, and suddenly I
shuddered all over, because suddenly the kite was God and I was the Son of God,
and the cord was the Holy Spirit which puts man in contact, in dialogue with
God. And once we’d flown the kite a few more times, the Gypsy girl screwed up
her courage and took over the twine-trembling as I had trembled, trembling to
see the kite tremble in the gusty wind-and, winding the twine around her
finger, she cried out in rapture.
One evening I came home and find her gone. I switched on my
light and went back and forthto the street until morning, but she didn’t come,
not that day or the next or ever again, though I looked everywhere for her. My
childlike little Gypsy, simple as unworked wood, as the breath of the Holy
Spirit-all she ever wanted was to feed the stove with the big, heavy boards and
beams she brought on her back, crosslike, from the rubble, all she ever wanted
was to make potato goulash with horse salami, feed her fire with wood, and fly
autumn kites. Later I learned that she had been picked up by Gestapo and sent
with a group of Gypsies to a concentration camp, and whether she was burned to
death at Majdanek or asphyxiated in an Auschwitz gas chamber, she never
returned... When she
failed to return at the end of the war, I burned the kite and twine and the
long tail she had decorated, a tiny Gypsy girl whose name I’d never quite
known.
…the more I thought of my Gypsy girl, who had never cheered,
who had wanted nothing more than to feed the fire, make her potato goulash, and
fill my large pitcher with beer, nothing more than to break her bread like the
wafer at Communion and look into the stove door, transfixed by the flames and
heat and noise of the fire, the song of the fire, which she had known since
childhood and which held sacred ties to her people. it left all pain behind and
coaxed a melancholy smile to her face, a reflection of perfect happiness.
Friday, May 26, 2017
Thursday, May 25, 2017
Wednesday, May 24, 2017
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