So what can they tell us, the writers of dream books,
the scholars of oneiric signs and omens,
the doctors with couches for analyses—
if anything fits,
and for one reason only,
that in our dreamings,
in their shadowings and gleamings,
in their multiplings, inconceivablings,
in their haphazardings and widescatterings
at times even a clear-cut meaning
may slip through. — Wisława Szymborska, from “Dreams” (translated by Clare Cavanagh and Stanisław Baranczak)
You should regard each meeting with a friend as a sitting he is unwillingly giving you for a portrait - a portrait that, probably, when you or he die, will still be unfinished. And, though this is an absorbing pursuit, nevertheless, the painters are apt to end pessimists. For however handsome and merry may be the face, however rich may be the background, in the first rough sketch of each portrait, yet with every added stroke of the brush, with ever modification of the chiaroscuro, the eyes looking out at you grow more disquieting. And, finally, it is your own face that you are staring at in terror, as in a mirror by candlelight, when all the house is still. — Hope Mirrlees, Lud in the Mist
One describes a tale best by telling the tale. You see? The way one describes a story, to oneself or to the world, is by telling the story. It is a balancing act and it is a dream.
—from the Notebooks of Mr. Ibis — NEIL GAIMAN, American Gods
“He thought what a fine thing it was that people made music all over the world, even in the strangest settings – probably even on polar expeditions.”
― Thomas Mann, The Magic Mountain
Perhaps you consider yourself an oracle,
Mouthpiece of the dead, or of some god
or other. Thirty years now I have labored
To dredge the silt from your throat.
I am none the wiser.
—Sylvia Plath, The Colossus
Even from the simplest, the most realistic point of view, the countries
which we long for occupy, at any given moment, a far larger place in our actual life than the country in which we happen to be. — Marcel Proust, Swann’s Way
“Where are you going this early in the day?” I asked.
“To buy my Buddha. I’ve decided to buy one every day. Don’t you think that’s a good idea?”
“Excellent. Enjoy yourself.”
She turned to wave goodbye and knocked her hat askew… — Colette, The Pure and the Impure (1931)
Otrov nije mržnja, otrov je ljubav koja se poriče. — Helene Cixous, Sanjarije divlje žene
Borili smo se.
Stisnuti gubitkom objekta po meri koji nikako nismo mogli da imamo. Nema utehe. Svi smo mali, sa osećanjima prekomerno velikim. Prepoznajemo da smo manje lepi.
—Helen Cixous, Sanjarije divlje žene
The real hopeless victims of mental illness are to be found among those who appear to be most normal. “Many of them are normal because they are so well adjusted to our mode of existence, because their human voice has been silenced so early in their lives, that they do not even struggle or suffer or develop symptoms as the neurotic does.” They are normal not in what may be called the absolute sense of the word; they are normal only in relation to a profoundly abnormal society. Their perfect adjustment to that abnormal society is a measure of their mental sickness. These millions of abnormally normal people, living without fuss in a society to which, if they were fully human beings, they ought not to be adjusted.
— Brave New World, Aldous Huxley
(Source: quotablebookquotes, via literarylust)