utorak, 11.09.2007.
J.D. Salinger, Lovac u žitu
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"Among other things, you'll find that you're not the first person who was ever confused and frightened and even sickened by human behavior. You're by no means alone on that score, you'll be excited and stimulated to know. Many, many men have been just as troubled morally and spiritually as you are right now. Happily, some of them kept records of their troubles. You'll learn from them - if you want to. Just as someday, if you have something to offer, someone will learn something from you. It's a beautiful reciprocal arrangement. And it isn't education. It's history. It's poetry." |
subota, 08.09.2007.
Sylvia Plath; Stakleno Zvono
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Picture: .DeviantArtist.
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Hell is empty. All the devils are here.
( W.Shakespeare - The Tempest )
****
Šteta što nemam deset godina više pa bi me starost čuvala od pobuna ili deset godina manje pa bi mi bilo svejedno. ( M. Selimović - Derviš i smrt )
Onda je otac rekao: pamti, nesreća je što kod nas nitko ne misli da je na pravom mjestu, i svako svakome je mogući suparnik; ljudi preziru one koji ne uspiju, a mrze one koji se uspnu iznad njih; navikni se na prezir ako želiš mir, ili na mržnju ako pristaneš na borbu. Ali ne ulazi u okršaj ako nisi siguran da ćeš oboriti protivnika. Ne upiri prstom na tude nepoštenje ako nisi dovoljno jak da to ne moraš dokazivati. ( M. Selimović - Derviš i smrt )
Your dog dies ( Raymond Carver )
it gets run over by a van.
you find it at the side of the road
and bury it.
you feel bad about it.
you feel bad personally,
but you feel bad for your daughter
because it was her pet,
and she loved it so.
she used to croon to it
and let it sleep in her bed.
you write a poem about it.
you call it a poem for your daughter,
about the dog getting run over by a van
and how you looked after it,
took it out into the woods
and buried it deep, deep,
and that poem turns out so good
you're almost glad the little dog
was run over, or else you'd never
have written that good poem.
then you sit down to write
a poem about writing a poem
about the death of that dog,
but while you're writing you
hear a woman scream
your name, your first name,
both syllables,
and your heart stops.
after a minute, you continue writing.
she screams again.
you wonder how long this can go on.
And the first rude sketch that the world had seen was joy to his mighty heart, till the Devil whispered behind the leavs :
" It's pretty, but is it Art ? "
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