Czech-born French Writer, Playwright and Author who lived in exiled in France
Czech-born French Writer, Playwright and Author who lived in exiled in France
To sit with a dog on a hillside on a glorious afternoon is to be back in Eden, where doing nothing was not boring ? it was peace.
Two people in love, alone, isolated from the world, that's very beautiful. But what would they nourish their intimate talk with? However contemptible the world may be, they still need it to be able to talk together.' 'They could be silent.' 'Like those two, at the next table?' Jean Marc laughed. 'Oh, no, no love can survive muteness.
The old gentleman is easily identified by the fact that the praise suffered the pains and makes them into a museum that invites its guests.
The reign of imagology begins where history ends.
The trap of hatred?
There are circumstances in which the human being doomed that displays. Struggle against the power struggle is like the silent theater group is preparing to attack the army.
There would seem to be nothing more obvious, more tangible and palpable than the present moment. And yet it eludes us completely. All the sadness of life lies in that fact. In the course of a single second, our senses of sight, of hearing, of smell, register (knowingly or not) a swarm of events and a parade of sensations and ideas pass through our head. Each instant represents a little universe, irrevocably forgotten in the next instant.
Thoughts on the approximation of the certainty of the truth is not unimaginable that there was a small gap is created and it is a kind of haunting this emptiness.
To those who believe that the communist regimes in Central Europe are exclusively the creation of criminals escaped them the main truth: the criminal regimes were the work of criminals, but of enthusiastic people firmly believe they have found the only way to heaven. They defended valiantly that his conviction and in behalf eradicated many. Later it became clear to all that there is no paradise and therefore enthusiastic people were killers.
Understand me. Misogynist do not despise women. Misogynist dislike femininity. Men always fall into two broad categories. Worshipers of women, ie poets, and misogynistic, or rather, the gynophobes. Worshipers or poets venerate traditional feminine values ??like feeling, home, motherhood, fertility, the sacred hysteria lightnings, and the voice of divine nature within us as well as misogynistic or gynophobes these values ??inspire a slight fear. In women, the worshiper worships femininity, while the misogynist always gives preference to women about femininity. Remember one thing: a woman cannot be really happy with a misogynist.
The only reason people want to be masters of the future is to change the past. They are fighting for access to the laboratories where photographs are retouched and biographies and histories rewritten.
The religion of orgasm: utilitarianism projected into sex life; efficiency versus indolence; coition reduced to an obstacle to be got past as quickly as possible in order to reach an ecstatic explosion, the only true goal of love-making and of the universe.
The true goodness of man can occur freely and in all purity in respect of those who pose no strength. The real (the most radical, which is at a level that escapes our gaze) moral test of humanity is its relationship with those who are his thank you and the animals. And it is here that occurred the greatest defeat of man, fundamental debacle which all others arise.
There are metaphysical problems, problems of human existence, that philosophy has never known how to grasp in all their concreteness and that only the novel can seize.
They [human lives] are composed like music. Guided by his sense of beauty, an individual transforms a fortuitous occurrence (Beethoven?s music, death under a train) into a motif, which then assumes a permanent place in the composition of the individual?s life. Anna could have chosen another way to take her life. But the motif of death and the railway station, unforgettably bound to the birth of love, enticed her in her hour of despair with its dark beauty. Without realizing it, the individual composes his life according to the laws of beauty even in times of greatest distress. It is wrong, then, to chide the novel for being fascinated by mysterious coincidences (like the meeting of Anna, Vronsky, the railway station, and death or the meeting of Beethoven, Tomas, Tereza, and the cognac), but it is right to chide man for being blind to such coincidences in his daily life. For he thereby deprives his life a dimension of beauty.
Through the air floated only important words, and Flajsman said to himself that love has but one true measure, and that is death. At the end of true love is death, and only the love that ends in death is love.
To where, added Leroy, resides the answer to your question: why are we living? what is essential in life? He looked hard at the lady. The essential, in life, is to perpetuate life: it is childbirth, and what precedes it, coitus, and what precedes coitus, seduction, that is to say kisses, hair floating in the wind, silk underwear, well-cut brassieres, and everything else that makes people ready for coitus, for instance good chow - not fine cuisine, a superfluous thing no one appreciates anymore, but the chow everyone buys - and along with chow, defecation, because you know, my dear lady, my beautiful adored lady, you know what an important position the praise of toilet paper and diapers occupies in our profession. Toilet paper, diapers, detergents, chow. That is man's sacred circle, and our mission is not only to discover it, seize it, and map it but to make it beautiful, to transform it into song. Thanks to our influence, toilet paper is almost exclusively pink, and that is a highly edifying fact, which, my dear and anxious lady, I would recommend that you contemplate seriously.
Uniformity would produce happiness, not boredom.
The only relationship that can make both partners happy is one in which sentimentality has no place and neither partner makes any claim on the life and freedom of the other.
The river flowed from century to century, and human affairs play themselves out on its banks. Play themselves out to be forgotten the next day, while the river flows on.
The uniqueness of the ?I? lies precisely in what is unimaginable in man. We are only able to imagine what is the same in all people, usually. The I individual is something that differs from the general, that is what cannot be guessed and calculated in advance what the other is necessary to discover, reveal, conquer.
There are moments in life when a man retreats defensively, when he must give ground, when he must surrender less important positions in order to protect the more important ones. But should it come to the very last, the most important one, at this point a man must halt and stand firm if he doesn't want to begin life all over again with idle hands and a feeling of being shipwrecked.
They not only offered the possibility of an imaginary escape from a life she found unsatisfying; they also had a meaning for her as physical objects: she loved to walk down the street with a book under her arm. It had the same significance for her as an elegant cane from the dandy a century ago. It differentiated her from others.
Thus they seek in women seeking their ideal and are repeatedly disappointed because an ideal is as we know, that which can never be.
Today history is no more than a thin thread of the remembered stretching over an ocean of the forgotten, but time moves on, and an epoch of millennia will come which the inextensible memory of the individual will be unable to encompass; whole centuries and millennia will therefore fall away, centuries of paintings and music, centuries of discoveries, of battles, of books, and this will be dire, because man will lose the notion of his self, and his history, unfathomable, un-encompass-able, will shrivel into a few schematic signs destitute of all sense.