Milorad Pavić

Milorad
Pavić
1929
2009

Serbian Novelist, Writer, Poet and Translator, Nobel Prize in Literature

Author Quotes

You tell me that I dream of an inky night and that only in your reality is there moonlight.

The guard locks the gates of the tomb, 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 tomb. 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 proffered 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.

Your past is hidden in your silence, your entirety of everything in your speech, and your future is in your wrong steps. Book is easy to make. Create, if you can, silence!

The most important faith who looks, listens and reads, not the one who draws or writes, sings.

The narrative is the sigh of the world, which makes it alive.

The victory of no children, she has only the father. And hitting one hundred children.

There are truths that people can die and the man himself is the truth that dies.

There was silence height similar to standing water spills, tranquility which only occasionally broke the distant barking of a dog or sound of an axe.

Unfortunate and wretched are those who have respected a book they did not love and hated those they did.

We all are trees, basking in its own shadow.

We are all masons time, Teramo shadows and catch the water in the belly button, each wall of your house classes, each time your ship lifted and your honey harvested, during the bellows carry us fire escalates.

What a great word descent can obliterate the successful scaling of a mountain.

When he commissioned me to transcribe the Life of St. Peter of Corishia, who after five days of fasting saw unaging light, it was dusk and the birds streaked down into their nests in the bushes like black lightning. My thoughts soared up at the same speed, and I felt the strength was not in me to combat my burgeoning sense of power. I sat down to transcribe the Life of St. Peter of Corishia, and when I reached the part about the days of the fast, instead of 5 I wrote 50 and gave the transcription to the young monk. He took it, singing, and read it that same evening; the next day, word spread through the gorge that the monk Longin had embarked upon a major fast...On the fifty-first day, when they buried Longin at the Annunciation in the foothills, I decided never to take pen in hand again. I looked with horror at the inkwell and thought: Too many bones in too tight a soul.

When we look into your soul, see what she has been many thousands of years ago, and not as it is now, because so many needs that our view reaches the soul and that both summary, that is, it takes this long to light Souls reach our inner eye and it shines. Sometimes we see the soul that has long gone.

Whenever Europe is sick, she would prescribe medication to the Balkans.

Winter was in full swing, the stars, as big as walnuts, not twinkling, glistening in the blue night sky.

Women never joking. Do not laugh, if after each joke to light a child. You people do not know how to measure their days. You only measure their length and say that the day lasts twenty-four hours. And your days are sometimes and depth, with greater than the length, and depth of this could be a month or even year length of days. So you can't take a look at their lives. Not to mention death ... [people/measure/measure/day]

?The soul is the skeleton, and the skeleton ? memories.

Each of us promenades his thought, like a monkey on a leash. When you read, you always have to such monkeys: your own and one belonging to someone else. Or, even worse, a monkey and a hyena. Now, consider what you will feed them. For a hyena does not eat the same things as a monkey...

Let your eyes rest on me at that time I'll be well prepared for their roles, because no one is wise and beautiful, seven days a week.

The future is stable, which is the us fear.

?The truth can only be found itself in her shake with fear?.

Everybody carries his own death with himself.

Life is not so much space: reach hand in hand and a Palm is on the Sun and the other in a fog.

?The truth is transparent and invisible.

Author Picture
First Name
Milorad
Last Name
Pavić
Birth Date
1929
Death Date
2009
Bio

Serbian Novelist, Writer, Poet and Translator, Nobel Prize in Literature