p.22 - The Narrator, about Rico David (the son)You too, with your traveling, your obsession to go further and further away and hoard more and more experiences, are carting your own cage around with you to the outer edge of the zoo. Everyone has their own captivity. The bars separate everyone from everyone else.p.78 - Giggy Ben-Gal ("friend of Rico's"), about Dubi Dombrov ("shabby film producer")The kid's jealous. He sits there wriggling on his chair, full of wretchedness and shame, and at the same time he's drawn toward you, he doesn't dare but he'd love to touch your hand that touches Dita and probably does things to her, any way and any time it likes, that he can only dream of. He would sell you a year of his fucked-up life here and now, just like that, for a hint of a chance to taste just once a tiny crumb from your nightly feasts with her. Sweeter even than her body for you now is his embittered envy, that stimulates your complacency gland, and also makes you feel pity and an urge to share your bread with the hungry, to grant him an evening with her, a secret gift or a donation of surplus goods. There's also a surprising pang of jealousy at the poor sod, with that desperate thirst of his that someone like you has never known and never will.p.87 - The Narrator, about RicoThe selfish love of an only child... At least he wanted all the traffic between his parents to flow through his own junction and not through a tunnel behind his back. Her illness seemed to him as though she had suddenly had a baby daughter, a demanding pampered creature, a little like him, it was true, but a spoilt child. He imagined that if he went away his mother would have to choose between the two of them, and he was sure she would never give him up.p.124 - Nadia (the dead mother)about herselfNadia remembers a baby imprisoned in the underground lair of the priestesses of an all-female cult, rules of modesty, rules of menstrual impurity, rules of prudence, qualities of innocent cunning, powders and creams, eyeblack and rouge, the masculine nature you have to learn to arouse and to repel, grace is false and beauty is vain, but without them beware that you do not end up unwanted and dusty on the sheld, heaven forbid. p.133 - The Narrator on himselfDon't think about me in the night I am insomnia think instead about foggy rain in the forest and a fox seeking shelter among fir trees in the dark and it will lull you to sleep. In the dark among the fir trees Old Somnia walks with a wet headscarf sodden dress soaked to the skin a crooked stick in her shrivelled hand a weary witch named Somnia roams inthe dark in the rain lost in the foggy trees shuffling from shadow to shadow wandering away from me out there yet passing through me on her way, backwards and forwards, criss-crossing me like a valley that she has turned from a valley into a vale of tears with her sleepless wandering. Maybe all this is just because I have left some door flapping. p.145 - Albert (the father) to The Narrator...But don't forget that the human voice may have been created to express both protest and ridicule, but essentially it contains a considerable percentage of quiet, precise speech which is meant to come out in measured words... Stay put in your house in Arad and try to write in a quiet way if you can. At times like these, quiet is the most precious commodity in the country. And let there be no misunderstanding. I'm talking about quiet, definitely not about silence.p.146 - about Rico...desire rises like mercury in the thermometer of his cock pressed against the wall of the bridge...
Като изключим опитите ми да чета The Time Traveller's Wife (от която вече май се отказах - все едно четеш сценарии за някакъв нов, уж-по-задушевен-и-уж-много-"инстински" вариант на "Сексът и градът". Иначе, филма вероятно ще го гледам, защото хубавото книгата със сигурност ще успеят да го поместят в 2 часа, макар да не си струва 2 седмици четене), отдавна не бях чела книга на английски. Беше изненадващо приятно и вдъхновяващо, предполагам защото самата книга е такава. Не бях чела нещо подобно досега - толкова красота на израза, толкова дълбоки и изненадващи чуства, казани с толкова малко думи, но толкова силни, че потреперваш и препрочиташ едно и също изречение отново и отново, само за да се насладиш на красотата му. Единственото, за което ме е малко яд е, че не успях да взема всико, което тази книга можеше да ми даде - пълна е със символи, със смислови препратки към библията и други неизвестни за мен неща, които просто нямаше как да разбера и оценя напълно. Дори да не разбереш всичко обаче, се усеща как книгата се взира в най-дълбоките тъмни дълбини на човека, в най-големите му тайни страхове, страсти и въпроси и дълбае безпощадно надолу и надолу без да дава каквито и да било отговори. Или поне ако е дала, явно съм я чела много невнимателно :) В това отношение някак напомня на поезията на Яворов (не лигавата, а по-философската), която ми се дощя да си припомня.
What do You think about The Same Sea (2002)?
Um romance que é um imenso poema de vozes que se entrelaçam, de vidas arrebatadas por outras vidas e pela morte, de recordações, de procura e de encontro… e de perda. Amos Oz edifica “O Mesmo Mar” a partir de fragmentos de alma, de cintilações mudas, de ausências presentes, de epopeias interiores e o resultado é um fresco de vidas em busca de um sentido. Navegando o mesmo mar.“Como uma corça ansiando pelas águas vivas, assim a minha alma.E dois ciprestes movem-se de cá para lá em silenciosa devoção.Como as águas cobrem o mar, as águas impetuosas passaram por cima:Passaram-se foram-se, e já não são. Volta ao teu repouso alma minha.Onde está o teu repouso?Responde, alma minha: para onde voltarás,Por que ansiarás, como uma corça? A cafeteira está a assobiar.É tempo de um café. E se a luz que há em tiEscurecer, que profunda será a escuridão. Está uma moscaPresa entre o estore e a rede. A casa está vazia. Um tapete.Um gato enroscado. Quando virei, quando surgirei? A luz é escuridão.À beira da água estava uma corça e foi-se.”
—Carla
L'un des plus beaux romans que j'aie lus. Écrit avec une telle liberté que bien d'autres écrivains ont l'air pris dans une camisole de force par comparaison. On entend presque les coeurs battre dans ce livre. Suite de récits, conversations entre morts et vivants, poèmes, dialogues intérieurs, citations bibliques, imbroglios (quel humour !), rencontres, magouilles — et cette finale où un changement de ton abrupt, sur quelques lignes, donne une force soudaine au personnage un peu perdu. Sorte de chef-d'œuvre discret.« Seule la mer » en français
—Jacques Desrosiers
Confesso che ho molto peccato, perché a leggere questo libricino a metà tra prosa e poesia, fatto di suggestioni leggere, riferimenti paesaggistici (il mare sopra tutti), languori e sentimenti, ho pensato facilmente a Baricco. E mi dolgo dei miei peccati!La verità è che scrivere un libro che mescoli prosa e poesia, nell'assoluta anarchia di forma e struttura, è sempre impresa ardua, si finisce sempre col suscitare occhiatacce di sospetto e scetticismo. E' anche vero che un libro del genere non chiede solo di esser letto: vuole essere ascoltato.Continua suhttp://www.lastambergadeilettori.com/...
—La Stamberga dei Lettori
