Passages... (1 Viewer)

[Gregor Samsa]

Thought I'd broaden the recent cavalcade of 'Favourite _______' threads. Simply put, this is a thread within which to share your favourite literary passages, and possibly comment on those of others. I have two.

Firstly...

And yet, and yet: even though human life did not reach beyond seeing and hearing, and even though the heart could not sound out any further than it beat, and even though, in consequence of this, harmony was set up before men as something of final dignity and worth, fate-destined to be form and only form, yet, despite this, everything that happened merely for the sake of beauty remained prepossessed by empty nothingness and greatly exposed to damnnation; for even in the moderation of harmony it remained in bondange to intoxication, a reversion of the path, it was simply a subterfuge and did not aim toward that perception in which alone divinity was at rest. Oh, wor to the seeing of the gold-glinted universe that looks on beauty; it remains, in spite of that, imprisoned in leaden blindedd! Oh, beauty-bedecked world, decked out for beauty! This was the world in which Rome was errected, rich in gardens, rich in palaces, that picture of a city, a rising image that moved nearer and nearer, transported in itself, yet near at hand and filling the azure sky: the house of Augustus and that of Maecenas were there, and not far off his own house on the Esquilin, the pathways adorned with columns, the quadrangles and gardens with statues; he saw the Circus and the amphitheatre in a turmoil with the furious playing of organs; he saw the gladiators wrestling to death for beauty's sake, the beasts set upon men; he saw the masses jubilant with lust, crowding about a cross on which, roaring and whimpering with pain, an insubordinate slave was being nailed-- the intoxication of blood, the intoxication of death, and withal the intoxication of beauty--, and he saw more and more licked by the flames, the flames mounting from the crackling wood and from the uproar of the crowds, a flaming ocean that closed over the city of Rome and ebbed away, leaving nothing but blackened ruins, wrecked pediments, tumbled statues, and a land grown over by weeds. He saw, and he knew it would come to pass, because the true law of reality revenged itself irresistably on mankind, and must so revenge itself, when, being greater than any manifestation of beauty, it was bartered for beauty, high above the law of the artist, which was only greedy for corroboration, there was the law of reality, there was--divine wisdom of Plato,--the Eros in the urge of existence, there was the law of the heart, and wor to a world which had forgotten this last reality. Why had he been singled out to know this? Were the others still blinder than he? Why did they not see, not grasp it? Why not, at least, his friends? Or did blindedd make him incapable of showing them? Why was he too paralysed, too weak too inarticulate to make them understand? Blood was what he saw before him, blood was what he tasted in his mouth; a rattling moan tore through his chest, rattling through his throat, and he was obliged to let his head sink back on the pillows!
Oh, truth alone is immortal, immortal in truth is death. Only he who closes his eyes has a sense of the seeing blindness, a sense of overcoming fate.
-Hermann Broch, The Death Of Virgil, pp.248-250.

 

[Gregor Samsa]

And secondly;

Perhaps she had not told him all the story. His eyes moved to the chair over which she had thrown some of her clothes. A petticoat string dangled to the floor. One boot stood upright, its limp upper fallen down: the fellow of it lay upon its side. He wondered at his riot of emotions of an hour before. From what had it proceeded? From his aunt's supper, from his own foolish speech, from the wine and dancing, the merry-making when saying goodnight in the hall, the pleasure of the walk along the river in the snow. Poor Aunt Julia! She, too, would soon be a shade with the shade of Patrick Morkan and his horse. He had caught that haggard look upon her face for a moment when she as singing 'Arrayed For The Bridal'. Soon, perhaps, he would be sitting in that same dressing room, dressed in black, his silk hat on his knees. The blinds would be drawn down and Aunt Kate would be sitting beside him, crying and blowing her nose and telling him how Julia had died. He would cast about in his mind for some words that might console her, and would find only lame and useless ones. Yes, yes: that would happen very soon.,

The air of the room chilled his shoulders. He stretched himself cautiously along under the sheets and lay down beside his wife. One by one, they were all becoming shades. Better pass boldly into that other world in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally with age. He thought of how she who lay beside him had locked in her heart for so many years that image of her lover's eyes when he had told her that he did not wish to live.

Generous tears filled Gabriel's eyes. He had never felt that himself towards any woman, but he knew that such a feeling must be love. The tears gathered more thickly in his eyes and in the partial darkness he imagined he saw the form of a young man standing under a dripping tree. Other forms were near. This soul had approached that region where dwell the vast hosts of the dead. He was conscious of, but could not apprehend, their wayward and flickering existence. His own identity was fading out into a grey impalpable world: the solid world itself, which these dead had one time reared and lived in, was dissolving and dwindling.

A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westwards. Yes, the newspapers were right; snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen, and further westwards, softly falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned softly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.
-James Joyce, The Dead. pp.173-74 [Dubliners.]

What would your favourites be?

 

[Bolkonski]

A joycian.. hmm nice. Id give one... but.... I cant find any.
Joseph Conrad's bit about fascination of abominations is pretty cool too.

"The only way to ever atone for being occasionally a little overdressed is by being always absolutely overeducated"

Oscar Wilde - Importance of Being ernest. (do plays count?)

 

[clerisy]

"No more firing was heard at Brussels-- the pursuit rolled miles away. Darkness came down on the field and city; and Amelia was praying for George, who was lying on his face, dead, with a bullet through his heart."
- Thackeray, "Vanity Fair"

I'm somewhat obsessed with this book, but I love that passage-- George's death is just so bluntly and honestly put, it shatters all the myths of heroism surrounding him and the Napoleonic wars. Also, George was a bastard, so it was nice to get rid of him.

Also--

" There is only a certain amount of kindness in the world... just as there is a certain amount of light, he continued in measured tones. We cast a shadow on something wherever we stand, and it is no good moving from place to place to save things; because the shadow always follows. Choose a place where you wont do harm-- yes, choose a place where you wont do very much harm, and stand in it for all you are worth, facing the sunshine."
-- EM Forster, A Room with a View

A Room with a View, was, admittedly a pretty schmaltzy, predictable novel, but for some reason I adored it. Forster had a way of making words sound... pretty, if you know what I mean. And that George Emerson was a gorgeous, incredibly intelligent young lad too.

 

[Gregor Samsa]

The following passage, from Kafka's 'The Trial' has also been published seperately as 'Before The Law' [For instance, in 'The Complete Short Stories], which is an indication of it transcending the original story itself; (In a sense) Sections of this were also included in a recent artwork.

Before the law stands a doorkeeper. To this doorkeeper there comes a man
from the country and prays for admittance to the Law. But the doorkeeper
says that he cannot grant admittance at the moment. The man thinks it over
and asks if he will be allowed in later. "It is possible," says the
doorkeeper, "but not at the moment." Since the gate stands open as usual,
and the doorkeeper steps to one side, the man stoops to peer through the
gateway into the interior. Observing that, the doorkeeper laughs and says:
"If you are so drawn to it, just try to go in despite my veto. But take
note: I am powerful. And I am only the least of the doorkeepers. From hall
to hall there is one doorkeeper after another, each more powerful than the
last. The third doorkeeper is already so terrible that even I cannot bear
to look at him." These are difficulties the man from the country has not
expected; the Law, he thinks, should surely be accessible at all times and
to everyone, but as he now takes a closer look at the doorkeeper in his fur
coat, with his big sharp nose and long thin, black Tartar beard, he decides
that it is better to wait until he gets permission to enter. The doorkeeper
gives him a stool and lets him sit down at one side of the door. There he
sits for days and years. He makes many attempts to be admitted, and wearies
the doorkeeper by his importunity. The doorkeeper frequently has little
interviews with him, asking him questions about his home and many other
things, but the questions are put indifferently, as great lords put them,
and always finish with the statement that he cannot be let in yet. The man,
who has furnished himself with many things for his journey, sacrifices all
he has, however valuable to the doorkeeper. The doorkeeper accepts
everything, but always with the remark: "I am only taking it to keep you
from thinking you have omitted anything." During these many years the man
fixes his attention almost continuously on the doorkeeper. He forgets the
other doorkeepers, and this first one seems to him the sole obstacle
preventing access to the Law. He curses his bad luck, in his early years
boldly and loudly; later, as he grows old, he only grumbles to himself. He
becomes childish, and since in his yearlong contemplation of the doorkeeper
he has come to know even the fleas in his fur collar, he begs the fleas to
help him and to change the doorkeeper's mind. At length his eyesight begins
to fail, and he does not know whether the world is darker or whether his
eyes are only deceiving him. Yet in his darkness he is now aware of a
radiance that streams inextinguishably from the gateway of the Law. Now he
has not very long to live. Before he dies, all his experiences in these
long years gather themselves in his head to one point, a question he has
not yet asked the doorkeeper. He waves him nearer since he can no longer
raise his stiffening body. The doorkeeper has to bend low toward him, for
the difference in height between them has altered much to the man's
disadvantage. "What do you want to know now?" asks the doorkeeper; "you are
insatiable." "Everyone strives to reach the Law," says the man, "so how
does it happen that for all these many years no one but myself has ever
begged for admittance?" The doorkeeper recognizes the man has reached his
end, and, to let his failing senses catch the words, roars in his ear: "No
one else could ever be admitted here, since this gate was made only for
you. I am now going to shut it."

 

[Kos]

I like alot of Kafka's work even though it is really existentialist.

 

[Gregor Samsa]

Originally posted by Kos
I like alot of Kafka's work even though it is really existentialist.

In my opinion, the 'existensialism' is actually a component of its greatness..Namely that much of Kafka's work is centred around an absurdist conception of the universe, and the surreal, dream-like aspects of his writings reflect this very well.

 

[Kos]

Existentialism really pisses me off but I dont mind it in Kafka since he was one of the founding fathers of it so hes not just some brainless "intellectual" who just pretends to be depressed so they can be literarily trendy.

 

[Grey Council]

Great beauty, by its very nature, must be ephemereal. For, without this sting, it would not be rare.

But i wish, oh i wish it were not so.


Hmph, if you read that in the context its in, its SSOOO moving. hehe