Onur Sümer
@Onur_Sumer
İngiliz Dili ve Edebiyatı
İzmit
İzmit, 9 Mayıs
186 okur puanı
Haziran 2018 tarihinde katıldı
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"Ama senin özürlere, pişmanlıklara, nostaljilere ihtiyacın yok. Sen hiçbir şeyi dışlamıyor, hiçbir şeyi reddetmiyorsun. İlerlemekten vazgeçtin, ama zaten ilerlemiyordun ki, yeniden yola çıkmıyorsun, vardın sen, daha uzağa gidip de ne yapacağını kestiremiyorsun."
Sayfa 20Kitabı okudu
"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."
Harpies around me out of her womb!
Chastity prays for me, piety sings,
Innocence sweetens my last black breath,
Modesty hides my thighs in her wings,
And all the deadly virtues plague my death!
Dylan Thomas - Lament
Okur Takip Önerileri
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...
Bir kitap okudu
576 syf.
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1019 günde okudu
"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.
'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.