Kadın poșet çay gibidir. Sıcak suya koyana dek ne denli güçlü olduğunu asla bilemezsiniz.
Wallıs Wındsor
“My dad’s just disappointed I wasn’t a poet,” James added. Professor Farrow taught the Romantic poets at Berkeley, and his much younger wife (scandalously, a former student) was a poet herself until she suffered a Plath-like breakdown when James was in grade school. I’d met them two summers before when I visited him in California and had my suspicions that they were interesting people but disinterested parents unequivocally confirmed.
Scene 4Kitabı okudu
Bütün bunlardan ötürü, Virginia Woolf’un yazdıkları geleneksel roman kavramından öylesine uzaktır ki, bunlar gerçekten roman mıdır diye düşünenler olmuştur belki de. Böyle düşünenlerin hakkı da vardır. Çünkü bildiğimiz kadarıyla ömründe şiir yazmayan Virginia Woolf’un romanları, romandan fazla şiire benzer. E.M.Forster bunu hemen anlamış, “she is a poet who wants to write something as near to a novel as possible” (elinden geldiğince romana yakın bir şey yazmak isteyen bir şairdir o) demişti.
Sayfa 69 - Yapı Kredi YayınlarıKitabı okuyacak
HENRY CHINASKI IS,
WITHOUT A DOUBT, THE
GREATEST ONE-LEGGED
POET IN THE WORLD
A work of art is good if it has sprung from necessity
Sayfa 20Kitabı okuyor
I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest
I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn’t quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn’t make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.
