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May 21st, 2013 2:26am

Mientras no lo tomen en serio, el que dice la verdad puede vivir un tiempo en una democracia.
Después, la cicuta.
As long as they do not take him seriously, the man who speaks the truth can live for a while in a democracy.
Then, the hemlock.

Nicolás Gómez Dávila, Escolios a un Texto Implícito: Selección, p. 401

Compare, Escolios a un Texto Implícito II, p. 115: “Cicuta (s.f.) = Bebida que en el banquete democrático se reserva al reaccionario.” / “Hemlock (n.) = drink which at a democratic banquet is reserved for the reactionary”.

(Source: don-colacho.blogspot.com)

April 9th, 2013 4:25pm

I live here much in my own manner, that is, alone, for I could not bear the company of my best friend, above a month; there is such a sameness in mankind upon the whole, and they grow so much more disgusting every day, that, were it not for a portion of Ambition, and a conviction that in times like the present we ought to perform our respective duties, I should live here all my life, in unvaried Solitude.

George Gordon Byron, 6th Baron Byron, in a letter to his half-sister, Augusta Leigh, 14 December 1808.

(Source: laudatortemporisacti.blogspot.com)

March 22nd, 2013 1:27pm

Every day my heart cries out;
Every night it turns to stone.

The story of my love
is written in blood all over my face.
I ask my Love to read it;
She asks me to ignore it.

Rumi, from Star’s In the Arms of the Beloved

March 22nd, 2013 10:29am

O Love,
I searched both worlds,
but never found joy without you.
I have seen many wonders,
but never one like you.

I pressed my soul’s ear
to countless doors,
but never heard words as sweet as yours.

O Saaqi, sweet sight of my eyes,
I’ve never seen one like you
in all of Persia or Arabia.
Pour the wine that takes me beyond myself,
for this petty existence
brings nothing but fatigue.

[…]

Rest now, my soul,
leave behind your religion
and your empty show of faith.

Remember when you had no religion?
Remember when all you had was Him?

Rumi, translated by Jonathan Star in Rumi: In the Arms of the Beloved

March 21st, 2013 8:54pm

I cried out, just to hear the scream which is answered by nothing, and from which nothing takes the strength of the scream, which therefore rises up, without any counterpoise, and cannot cease even when it grows silent.

Franz Kafka, Unhappiness (via kafkaesque-world)

(Source: violentwavesofemotion)

March 11th, 2013 2:33am

My body is heavy as lead when I throw it into bed. I pass immediately into the lowest depth of dream. This body, which has become a sarcophagus with stone handles, lies perfectly motionless; the dreamer rises out of it, like a vapor, to circumnavigate the world. The dreamer seeks vainly to find a form and shape that will fit his ethereal essence. Like a celestial tailor, he tries on one body after another, but they are all misfits. Finally he is obliged to return to his own body, to reassume the leaden mould, to become a prisoner of the flesh, to carry on in torpor, pain and ennui.

Henry Miller, The Rosy Crucifixion, vol. I, Sexus, bk. 1, cap. 1 (1949)

(Source: literarylovers)

March 6th, 2013 2:34pm

Melancolia m-a prins pe stradă
Sunt ameţit.
Oh, primăvara, iar a venit…
Palid, şi mut…
Mii de femei au trecut;
Melancolia m-a prins pe stradă.
E o vibrare de violete:
Trece şi Ea;
Aş vrea,
Dar nu pot s-o salut;
Oh, şi cum a trecut,
Într-o vibrare de violete.
Nimicnicia m-a prins pe stradă;
Am adormit.
Oh, primăvara, iar a venit
Pal, şi uitat…
Vals funebru, depărtat.
Melancolia mă ţine-n stradă…

Melancholy’s caught me on the street,
distressed.
Spring has come again,
pale and silent….
Thousands of women have passed by;
melancholy’s caught me on the street.
A vibration of violets,
she passes by;
I wish to,
but cannot, greet her—
and now she’s passed
into a vibration of violets.
Emptiness has caught me on the street,
dazed.
Spring has come again,
pale and forlorn….
Like a funeral song in the distance,
emptiness holds me on the street…

George Bacovia, Scântei galbene, “Nervi De Primăvară” (1926; Yellow Sparks, “Spring Anxiety”).

η απορια του μη ησυχαζειν — Posts Tagged ‘lit’

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