Onur Sümer
@Onur_Sumer
İngiliz Dili ve Edebiyatı
İzmit
İzmit, 9 Mayıs
186 okur puanı
Haziran 2018 tarihinde katıldı
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Okuma Hedefleri
"The ocean depresses the soul of man, and at the sight of its boundless expanse of billows—an expanse whereon the weary eye is allowed no resting-place from the uniformity of the picture—the heart of man grows troubled within him, and he derives no solace from the roaring and mad rolling of the waves. Ever since the world began, those waves have sung the same dim, enigmatical song. Ever since the world began, they have voiced but the querulous lament of a monster which, everlastingly doomed to torment, utters a chorus of shrill, malicious cries. On the shores of the sea no bird warbles; only the silent gulls, like lost spirits, fit wearily along its margin, or circle over its surface. In the presence of that turmoil of nature the roar even of the wildest beast sounds weak, and the voice of man becomes wholly overwhelmed. Yes, beside it man’s form looks so small and fragile that it is swallowed up amid the myriad details of the gigantic picture. That alone may be why contemplation of the ocean depresses man’s soul. During periods, also, of calm and immobility his spirit derives no comfort from the spectacle; for in the scarcely perceptible oscillation of the watery mass he sees ever the slumbering, incomprehensible force, which, until recently, has been mocking his proud will and, as it were, submerging his boldest schemes, his most dearly cherished labours and endeavours."
On est nés fidèles, on en crève nous autres! Soldats gratuits, héros pour tout le monde et singes parlants, mots qui souffrent, on est nous les mignons du Roi Misère. C'est lui qui nous possède ! Quand on est pas sages, il serre... On a ses doigts autour du cou, toujours, ça gêne pour parler, faut faire bien attention si on tient à pouvoir manger... Pour des riens, il vous étrangle... C'est pas une vie...
"But-I am bored!" But why was I bored? Partly because of the dominance of the letter 'I' and the aridity, which, like the giant beech tree, it casts within its shade. Nothing will grow there.
Okur Takip Önerileri
'Hope!' repeated Danglars.
'Hope!' faintly murmured Fernand; but the word seemed to die on his pale, agitated lips, and a convulsive spasm passed over his countenance.
A vague feeling of curiosity and apprehension quelled every disposition to talk, and almost instantaneously the most deathlike stillness prevailed.
How barren is my soul and thought, and yet incessantly tormented by vacuous, rapturous and agonizing birth pangs! Is my spirit to be forever tongue-tied? Must I always babble? What I need is a voice as penetrating as the glance of Lynceus, terrifying as the sigh of the giants, persistent as a sound of nature, mocking as a frost-chilled gust of wind, malicious as Echo's callous scorn, with a compass from the deepest bass to the most melting chest-notes, modulating from the whisper of gentle holiness to the violent fury of rage. That is what I need to get air, to give expression to what is on my mind, to stir the bowels of my wrath and of my sympathy.
- But my voice is only hoarse like the cry of a gull, or dying away like the blessing upon the lips of the dumb.
'When laughter first manifests itself in the infant, it is an incipient cry, excited by pain, or by a feeling of pain suddenly inhibited, and recurring at brief intervals.' What if everything in the world were a misunderstanding, what if laughter were really tears?
There are times when one can be so infinitely pained on seeing someone all alone in the world. Thus the other day I saw a poor girl walking all alone to church to be confirmed. [...]
I say of my sorrow what the Englishman says of his home: my sorrow is my castle. Many consider sorrow one of life's comforts.
No wavering mind, infected with Hamletism, was ever pernicious: the principle of evil lies in the will's tension, in the incapacity for quietism, in the Promethean megalomania of a race that bursts with ideals, that explodes with its convictions, and that, in return for having forsaken doubt and sloth - vices nobler than all its virtues - has taken the path to perdition, into history, that indecent alloy of banality and apocalypse ... Here certitudes abound: suppress them, best of all suppress their consequences, and you recover paradise.
Ah, this sorrowful, black sea beneath me! Ah, this brooding reluctance! Ah, destiny and sea! Now I have to go down to you!
I stand before my highest mountain and my longest wandering: therefore I must first descend deeper than I have ever descended,
- deeper into pain than I have ever descended, down to its blackest stream! So my destiny will have it. Well then! I am ready.
I asked for very little from life, and even this little was denied me. A nearby field, a ray of sunshine, a little bit of calm along with a bit of bread, not to feel oppressed by the knowledge that I exist, not to demand anything from others, and not to have others demand anything from me - this was denied me, like the spare change we might deny a beggar not because we're mean-hearted but because we don't feel like unbuttoning our coat.
The smallest living idea seemed an outrage. Despite good tone, perfect manners, the desire to be agreeable, boredom was written upon every brow.
In itself, every idea is neutral, or should be; but man animates ideas, projects his flames and flaws into them; impure, transformed into beliefs, ideas take their place in time, take shape as events: the trajectory is complete, from logic to epilepsy ... whence the birth of ideologies, doctrines, deadly games.
He went racing off down the street and began to shout, lifting his arms to the heavens in joy: Lord, now lettest thou!',' and others that he sobbed violently like a small child to the point where it grieved one just to look at him, all the revulsion he inspired notwithstanding. It may very well be that both the one and the other took place, that is to say, that he exulted in his liberation and wept for his liberatress - both at the same time. In the majority of instances human beings, even the evil-doers among them, are far more naive and straightforward than we suppose. And that includes ourselves.
“Yes, what we call the goal of life is doubtless the consumption of freedom. People often treat the preservation of freedom as if it were the goal of human existence; but isn’t this merely an illusion, after all, that stems from a chronic lack of freedom? Since people make goals out of such things, they fall into the dilemma of talking beyond the confines of this universe; they become misers, or failing that, religious fanatics—one or the other, at least.”
“We have coined concepts of succor, such as “All men are brothers,” but where is such a vast, imaginary repository of “brothers”? Wouldn’t it be more logical to reconcile oneself to the fact that others are enemies and abandon such highflown, misplaced hopes? Wouldn’t it be safer to hurry up and produce some antibody for loneliness?”