59 Milorad Pavić Quotes on Dictionary of the Khazars: A Lexicon Novel in 100, Novel and Dictionary of the Khazars: A Lexicon Novel - Female Edition - Quotes.pub

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თუ შევიმეცნებთ, რომ მარადისობა გარდამოდის ჩვენზე, როგორც ღვთის წყალობა, როგორც ნათლის ერთ-ერთი სახეობა, რომელიც არ ბერდება (ასე მიიჩნევდნენ ბიზანტიელი ბერები), ხოლო დრო გამოდინდება სატანისგან, რომელიც ტაძრის მარცხნივ არის, მაშინ ნათელი გახდება, რომ განსაზღვრულ ადგილას უნდა არსებობდეს მარადისობა და დროის ოქროს კვეთი. ჯვრის იმ ადგილზე, სადაც ერთმანეთს კვეთენ დრო და მარადისობა, დრო წამით შეჩერდება იმისთვის, რომ მარადისობამ აკურთხოს... და ეს წამია აწმყო. აწმყოს ფარგლებს გარეთ _ როგორც წარსულ, ისე მომავალ დროში – სიცოცხლე არ არის, არასდროს ყოფილა და არც არასდროს იქნება.
Человек думает, что умереть легко. Лег и умер. Но это не так просто. Все, что за нами и перед нами, длится гораздо дольше, чем мы предполагаем. Вот, например, знаешь ли ты, какая разница между сердцем и душой? Когда мы обратим наш внутренний взгляд на свое сердце, мы увидим его таким, какое оно в данный момент. Когда же посмотрим в нашу душу, она окажется такой, какой была много тысяч лет назад, а не такой, какая она сейчас, потому что именно столько нужно нашему взгляду, чтобы добраться до души и рассмотреть ее, - другими словами, столько времени требуется для того, чтобы свет души достиг нашего внутреннего взора и осветил его. Иногда таким образом мы видим душу, которой давно нет. Раз такое дело с душой, то что же говорить о смерти. Смерть человека длится столько же лет, сколько и его жизнь, а может быть, и гораздо дольше, потому что смерть - это сложное хозяйство, работа и усилие, более трудное и длительное, чем человеческая жизнь...Твоя смерть может жить вдвое дольше, чем ты...
The guard locks the gates of the turbeh, letting the heavy sound of the lock fall into the dark interior, as though leaving the name of the key inside. Dispirited, like me, he sits down on the stone beside me and closes his eyes. Just when I think he has dozed off in his part of the shade, the guard lifts his hand and points to a moth fluttering above the entrance to the tomb, having come out of our clothes or the Persian carpets in the turbeh. "You see," he says to me casually, "the moth is way up there by the white wall of the doorway, and it is visible only because it moves. From here it almost looks like a bird in the sky. That's probably how the moth sees the wall, and only we know it is wrong. But it doesn't know that we know. It doesn't even know we exist. You try to communicate with it if you can. Can you tell it anything in a way it understands; can you be sure it understood you completely?" "I don't know," I replied. "Can You?" "Yes," the old man said quietly, and with a clap of his hands he killed the moth, then profered its crushed body on the palm of his hand. "Do you think it didn't understand what I told it?" "You can do the same thing with a candle, extinguish it with your two fingers to prove you exist," I commented. "Certainly, if a candle is capable of dying... Now, imagine," he went on, "that there is somebody who knows about us what we know about the moth. Somebody who knows how, with what, and why this space that we call the sky and assume to be boundless, is bounded-- somebody who cannot approach us to let us know that he exists except in one way-- by killing us. Somebody, on whose garments we are nourished, somebody who carries our death in his hand like a tongue, as a means of communicating with us. By killing us, this anonymous being informs us about himself. And we, through our deaths, which may be no more than a warning to some wayfarer sitting alongside the assassin, we, I say, can at the last moment perceive, as through an opened door, new fields and other boundaries. This sixth and highest degree of deathly fear (where there is no memory) is what holds and links us anonymous participants in the game. The hierarchy of death is, in fact, the only thing that makes possible a system of contacts between the various levels of reality in an otherwise vast space where deaths endlessly repeat themselves like echoes within echoes...
Unutrašnja strana vetra je ona koja ostaje suva dok vetar duva kroz kišu.""Bilo je nešto što nikako nije uspevala da uklopi u svoju čistu sliku sveta. To su bili snovi. Otkud u tako jednostavnom životu, u kome se može trčati samo između dva uha, svake večeri nešto tako neobjašnjivo kao što su snovi? Nešto što traje i posle smrti.""Lingvistika snova govorila je jasno da postoji prilog vremena sanjanog i da put do sadašnjice vodi preko budućnosti, i to kroz san. Jer ni prošlog vremena nema u snovima. Sve liči na nešto još nedoživljeno, na neku čudnu sutrašnjicu koja je počela unapred. Na neki predujam uzet od budućeg života, na budućnost koja se ostvaruje pošto je sanjač izbegao neminovno SADA.""Ljubav je kao ptica u kavezu; ako je svaki dan ne nahraniš, ugine.""OTVARAM VRATA, U SOBU ULAZI MESEČINA, KROZ MESEČINU ULAZIM JA.""Ničega tajanstvenog, nažalost, nema na svetu. Svet nije pun tajni, svet je pun ušiju koje pište. Čitava priča može da stane u pucanj biča.""Svi smo mi zidari vremena, teramo senke i hvatamo vodu na pupak; svak zida od časova svoju kuću, svak od vremena svoj uljanik podiže i svoj med bere, vreme u mehovima nosimo da nam vatru raspiruje.""Kada se zagledamo u svoju dušu, vidimo je kakva je ona bila pre mnogo hiljada godina, a ne kakva je sada, jer toliko treba da naš pogled stigne do duše i da je osmotri, to jest, toliko vremena treba da svetlost duše stigne do našeg unutrašnjeg oka i da ga obasja. Ponekad tako vidimo dušu koje odavno nema.