all quotes from desolation by yasmina reza
"'what's the point of using all these definitions with me? i'm an old lady now, i'm no longer susceptible to the charms of contrarians like you. you think you're being provocative and you're just being predictable' (your sister used the word dense, remember?). 'unlike arthur i don't think there's any reason to reproach you for the blinkered way you see the world, but why do you feel obliged to belittle it at every given moment? your standpoint on this story is the standpoint of someone who's fallen out of love. as a standpoint it's devoid of affection, it doesn't carry much authority, if you want to know what i think, and it certainly doesn't merit being broadcast. people we no longer love no longer carry any credit with us and everything they do seems artificial. when we're in love, obviously,' she went on after a hesitation, 'we blindly cultivate every magic pull of enchantment'"
"'his words were chosen with such nonchalant cruelty that i can barely reproduce their power to wound. 'everything is for the best, my dear. what years of hesitations and agonizing doubt couldn't bring me to do, you have achieved with decisive grace and the lightest of touches. you've finally set me free, genevieve. and i must admit something to you: while it would have been almost impossible for me to get there on my own, i sincerely envy the ease, the flick of the wrist, with which you eliminated me.''"
"and i would say to him don't let yourself be upset my boy, by my deplorable rantings, with the people i love, i like to explore the precipice, i like extreme danger. i make myself odious, i make myself utterly ugly to test your affection. when it comes to ugliness, i can scale everest."
rápidas manos frías/ retiran una a una/las vendas de la sombra/abro los ojos/ todavía/ estoy vivo/en el centro/ de una herida todavía fresca ~*madrugada* por octavio paz
Showing posts with label yasmina reza. Show all posts
Showing posts with label yasmina reza. Show all posts
Monday, April 18, 2016
Tuesday, March 22, 2016
i forbid you
quotes from adam haberberg by yasmina reza
"i can't picture the world. i can see only scattered fragments, shards, i can make no sense of it. i'm not capable of renting bicycles for my family because i'm simply not capable of grappling with the idea of joy, pedaling along amid the idea of joy kills me. whistling along amid salt breezes with happy families is beyond my strength. if i get onto a bicycle with the little one on the saddle behind, what'll overcome me is the desire to weep. to avoid having the desire to weep, one would need to have made a success of everything else, to feel oneself in one camp or the other. whistling along in single file with your wife and children amid the salt breezes is not the least you can do, it's the ultimate achievement."
"what gives her the right to judge what state i'm in, he thinks, what gives her the right to deliver an assessment of the state i'm in, this limping female rat in the rain with her bags of samples. what gives her the right to decree that i'm not well, this nauseatingly robust ghost from the past. it's not that i'm not well marie-therese, i'm extremely unwell, i'm experiencing indescribable grief and i've no idea where consolation might come from, but you cannot know that. you cannot imagine it, marie-therese, because your energy betrays you and your courage betrays you. a being who can live in this hole without being annihilated, who can open their shutters onto this barren landscape without weeping bitter tears, cannot judge the state i'm in. a being who can face that long, narrow kitchen and that lineup of domestic appliances without feeling mortally bereft cannot judge the state i'm in. i have no admiration for your energy, it injures me. i have no admiration for your good temper, it confounds and revolts me. nothing in you speaks to me and nothing in me can speak to you. and just because fate put me into your jeep wrangler today it doesn't mean you can claim the least complicity and tell me, with such gall, that i look as if i've hit rock bottom, and with what stupefying authority, that you could see clearly that i'm not well and that you'd seen it right away back at the jardin des plantes. you can understand nothing about my life because you, marie-therese, were damned from the start. you accepted this damnation and you live with it. you've blended into the mass, you've ironed out all the discords between the world and yourself, and made your nest there, you say bottom line, you talk about the image of the washing machine, you say i have positively bloomed, a woman who talks about my business with that fervor is forever alien to me. you're one of those people who never long for the impossible and one way or another have avoided expecting it. homespun sages, i'd call you. people who succeed because they're genuine and authentic in a milieu in which any sensitive spirit withers and disintegrates. i refuse to believe that god has departed, leaving the field open to your sort of humanity. there's no parity between you and me. we don't resemble each other in any way, i forbid you to think we might be equals to the extent that i could allow myself to confide in you. defeat and the sense of desolation are beyond your ken. you don't know what solitude is. you get up alone, you have no children, you've bypassed the universal model, but you do not experience my solitude. if you experienced it you couldn't survive for two minutes between your burrow in viry and your operation setting up outlets in amusement parks. my own solitude clings to me, i'm never free of it. whether i'm with irene, or with the children amid the family life that'll be the death of me, in which a man only demeans himself and sells himself cheap, whether i'm in company or on my own, the feeling of solitude never leaves me. it's what rules my life. if it had ruled yours, marie-therese, you would be lying at the bottom of the lake, for you wouldn't be able to endure opening your shutters onto that dead water and those distant cries. at one moment in the jeep you said to me: we're not even fifty, you said we, as if we were from the same stable, you and i, as if the absurd class we were in at the lycee had any meaning. marie-therese, i hardly remember you at the lycee, you were the most invisible being ever. when you came up to me with your bags of samples and your umbrella, i pretended to be renewing a nonexistent link out of the kindness of my heart. when in the wrangler you said we, i realized my mistake, i realized it didn't strike you as an immense honor for me to be sitting on the seat beside you and an immense honor that i could accept your unthinkable invitation. now i learn that i was not even your equal but your protege. i made your heart bleed, bald and alone on my damp bench, and you loaded me into your four-by-four the way you would one of the zoo animals if they could be taken out of their cages. one cannot be too wary of people of your type, supposedly inoffensive people who crush one with a sentence. people who bring you down in the worst possible way, without you asking anything of them, without you granting them the privilege of the least familiarity, and who take advantage of your weakness to demolish you. marie-therese, i've held on to the naive dream of becoming a writer, that is to say a man who tries to save himself from himself. a man who, in order to hold on to a little momentum toward the future, attempts to exchange his own existence for that of words. i don't want to hear i'm not well. such phrases are of abject insignificance coming from you, marie-therese. my hair is turning white, my teeth are turning yellow, and my hands are shrinking. i forbid you to notice. even if i'm in the throes of death, i forbid you to notice that i'm in the throes of death, you have no right to notice anything at all about me, you can understand nothing about what i am, you have chosen to live as marie-therese lyoc, you have chosen to be part of the hoi polloi of humanity, we do not belong to the same caste, i forbid you to notice my decline."
"i can't picture the world. i can see only scattered fragments, shards, i can make no sense of it. i'm not capable of renting bicycles for my family because i'm simply not capable of grappling with the idea of joy, pedaling along amid the idea of joy kills me. whistling along amid salt breezes with happy families is beyond my strength. if i get onto a bicycle with the little one on the saddle behind, what'll overcome me is the desire to weep. to avoid having the desire to weep, one would need to have made a success of everything else, to feel oneself in one camp or the other. whistling along in single file with your wife and children amid the salt breezes is not the least you can do, it's the ultimate achievement."
"what gives her the right to judge what state i'm in, he thinks, what gives her the right to deliver an assessment of the state i'm in, this limping female rat in the rain with her bags of samples. what gives her the right to decree that i'm not well, this nauseatingly robust ghost from the past. it's not that i'm not well marie-therese, i'm extremely unwell, i'm experiencing indescribable grief and i've no idea where consolation might come from, but you cannot know that. you cannot imagine it, marie-therese, because your energy betrays you and your courage betrays you. a being who can live in this hole without being annihilated, who can open their shutters onto this barren landscape without weeping bitter tears, cannot judge the state i'm in. a being who can face that long, narrow kitchen and that lineup of domestic appliances without feeling mortally bereft cannot judge the state i'm in. i have no admiration for your energy, it injures me. i have no admiration for your good temper, it confounds and revolts me. nothing in you speaks to me and nothing in me can speak to you. and just because fate put me into your jeep wrangler today it doesn't mean you can claim the least complicity and tell me, with such gall, that i look as if i've hit rock bottom, and with what stupefying authority, that you could see clearly that i'm not well and that you'd seen it right away back at the jardin des plantes. you can understand nothing about my life because you, marie-therese, were damned from the start. you accepted this damnation and you live with it. you've blended into the mass, you've ironed out all the discords between the world and yourself, and made your nest there, you say bottom line, you talk about the image of the washing machine, you say i have positively bloomed, a woman who talks about my business with that fervor is forever alien to me. you're one of those people who never long for the impossible and one way or another have avoided expecting it. homespun sages, i'd call you. people who succeed because they're genuine and authentic in a milieu in which any sensitive spirit withers and disintegrates. i refuse to believe that god has departed, leaving the field open to your sort of humanity. there's no parity between you and me. we don't resemble each other in any way, i forbid you to think we might be equals to the extent that i could allow myself to confide in you. defeat and the sense of desolation are beyond your ken. you don't know what solitude is. you get up alone, you have no children, you've bypassed the universal model, but you do not experience my solitude. if you experienced it you couldn't survive for two minutes between your burrow in viry and your operation setting up outlets in amusement parks. my own solitude clings to me, i'm never free of it. whether i'm with irene, or with the children amid the family life that'll be the death of me, in which a man only demeans himself and sells himself cheap, whether i'm in company or on my own, the feeling of solitude never leaves me. it's what rules my life. if it had ruled yours, marie-therese, you would be lying at the bottom of the lake, for you wouldn't be able to endure opening your shutters onto that dead water and those distant cries. at one moment in the jeep you said to me: we're not even fifty, you said we, as if we were from the same stable, you and i, as if the absurd class we were in at the lycee had any meaning. marie-therese, i hardly remember you at the lycee, you were the most invisible being ever. when you came up to me with your bags of samples and your umbrella, i pretended to be renewing a nonexistent link out of the kindness of my heart. when in the wrangler you said we, i realized my mistake, i realized it didn't strike you as an immense honor for me to be sitting on the seat beside you and an immense honor that i could accept your unthinkable invitation. now i learn that i was not even your equal but your protege. i made your heart bleed, bald and alone on my damp bench, and you loaded me into your four-by-four the way you would one of the zoo animals if they could be taken out of their cages. one cannot be too wary of people of your type, supposedly inoffensive people who crush one with a sentence. people who bring you down in the worst possible way, without you asking anything of them, without you granting them the privilege of the least familiarity, and who take advantage of your weakness to demolish you. marie-therese, i've held on to the naive dream of becoming a writer, that is to say a man who tries to save himself from himself. a man who, in order to hold on to a little momentum toward the future, attempts to exchange his own existence for that of words. i don't want to hear i'm not well. such phrases are of abject insignificance coming from you, marie-therese. my hair is turning white, my teeth are turning yellow, and my hands are shrinking. i forbid you to notice. even if i'm in the throes of death, i forbid you to notice that i'm in the throes of death, you have no right to notice anything at all about me, you can understand nothing about what i am, you have chosen to live as marie-therese lyoc, you have chosen to be part of the hoi polloi of humanity, we do not belong to the same caste, i forbid you to notice my decline."
Friday, February 19, 2016
from "art"
“Serge He is getting on my nerves. It’s true.
He’s getting on my nerves.
It’s this ingratiating tone of voice. A little smile behind every word.
It’s as if he’s forcing himself to be pleasant.
Don’t be pleasant, whatever you do, don’t be pleasant!
Could it be buying the Antrios? . . . Could buying the Antrios have triggered off this feeling of constraint between us?
Buying something. . . without his backing? . . .
Well, bugger his backing! Bugger your backing, Marc!
Marc Could it be the Antrios, buying the Antrios?
No --
It started some time ago. . .
To be precise, it started on the day we were discussing some work of art and you uttered, quite seriously, the word deconstruction.
It wasn’t so much the word deconstruction which upset me, it was the air of solemnity you imbued it with.
You said, humourlessly, unapologetically, without a trace of irony, the word deconstruction, you, my friend.
I wasn’t sure how best to deal with the situation, so I made this throwaway remark, I said I think I must be getting intolerant in my old age, and you answered, who do you think you are? What makes you so high and mighty? . . .
What gives you the right to set yourself apart, Serge answered in the bloodiest possible way. And quite unexpectedly.
You’re just Marc, what makes you think you’re so special?
That day, I should have punched him in the mouth.
And when he was lying there on the ground, half-dead, I should have said to him, you’re supposed to be my friend, what sort of a friend are you, Serge, if you don’t think your friends are special?”
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