Although I am not very proficient in english, I believe that
literature goes beyond language. One of my passionate hobbies is
reading fiction. Discussing ``good'' books is the only
non-mathematical conversation in which I would not roll my eyes.
My
favourite book is ``Master and Margarita''. I love sarcasm, and
I like
sarcastic lines from Russian classics such as Gogol,
Chekhov. Another
genre I like is satire, and as many of you know
there is
a thin line between sarcasm
and satire. I have not
yet read any highbrow sarcasm--based books (as a
whole), and I
would like to do that sometime. I like``Hitchhiker's
guide to
galaxy series'', ``Catch 22'', ``The Good soldier Svejk'' in
satire. In the lines of philosophy, I like ``The fall''. Thomas
Mann:
I am still curious to understand his real point even after
reading Buddenbrooks, Magic mountain,
death in Venice, and some of
his
short stories. The thing is, his writings are captivating.
Heavenly
and never-ending reading I still enjoy is Proust. Joyce
''A portrait
of the artist as a young man'' is perhaps the best
book I read in the
list of experimental literature. However, it
has been more than 100
years since its appearance.
I used to note down some amusing excerpts on
various notebooks, which are lost in transition. So, perhaps this
is a place to compile such a list.
It's a common
saying that a man needs only six feet of earth.
But it's a corpse that
needs six feet, not a man. (Chekhov, Gooseberries)
The only gain of civilisation for mankind is the
greater capacity for variety of sensations
(Dostoyevsky, Notes from underground).
Suppose, gentlemen, that man is not stupid. (Dostoyevsky, Notes from underground, Part 1, VIII)
What can hell set right here, ...(The Brothers Karamazov)
``C'est de nouveau, n'est-ce pas? This time I will
be honest and explain it to you. Listen: in dreams
and especially in nightmares, well, let's say as a
result of indigestion or whatever, a man sometimes
sees artistic dreams, such complex real actuality,
such events, or even a whole world of events, woven
into such a plot, with such unexpected details,
beginning from your highest manifestations down to the
last button , I swear even Leo Tolstroy couldn't invent;
and by the way its not writters who occasionally see such dreams,
but quite the most ordinary people, officials, journalists,
priests.... There is a whole problem concerning this:
one government minister even confessed to me himself that
all his best ideas come to him when he's asleep.
(The Brothers Karamazov, The devil.)
Soldiers singing in Valetta, last chapter:
who's the little rodent
That's getting more than me?
F-U-C-K-E-Y Y-O-U-S-E.
(Pynchon from the book ``V'')
And yet, perhaps I was not wrong in sacrificing the
pleasures not only of society but of friendship to that of spending
the whole day in this green garden. People who have the capacity
to do so--it is true that such people are artists, and I had long been
convinced that I should never be that-
also have a duty to live for
themselves. And friendship is a dispensation from this duty, an
abdication of self. Even conversation, which is friendship's mode of
expression, is a superficial digression which gives us nothing
worth acquiring. We may talk for a lifetime without doing more
than indefinitely repeat the vacuity of a minute, whereas the
march of thought in the solitary work of artistic creation proceeds
in depth, in the only direction that is not closed to us, along which
we are free to advance
-though with more effort, it is true-
towards a goal of truth?
Proust on Friendship and self.
Oh, it's a strange land you've come visiting to see me
here. With no idea of a hero, you see, but they need them so badly that they
make up special games, hitting a ball with a stick and all kinds of nonsense,
and the men who win the games are their heroes)
Gaddis on heroes.
Everyone's smoking, clouds of smoke from pipes and cigarettes
and cigars fog the whole huge hall. When it gets too smoky for the
smoke, it looks for a way out which, thanks to its lightness, it can,
through chinks and holes and ventilator shafts, all of which are
under instruction to see it out. Once outside, though, there's only
black night and freezing cold. Then the smoke regrets its
impulsiveness, and opposes its nature, but the ventilators turn only one
way, and there's nothing to be done about it. Too late. It's subject to
physical laws. The smoke's not sure what it thinks about that, it
tries to touch its brow and there's nothing there, it wants to think
and it can't. The wind, the cold, the night, have it in their grip, and
it is never seen again.
Gaddis
You were not put on this earth just to get in touch with God.
That sort of thing could sap all the strength and the goodness out of
a chelloveck.
A Clockwork Orange, Chapter 1
Well, we went off now round the corner to Attlee Avenue,
and there was this sweets and cancers shop still open.
Clockwork Orange Chapter 1.
Until now she had always believed that it was failure
only that was intolerable, but now she understood that victory
too was intolerable, because the most shameful element of the
desperate struggle was not that she remained on top, but that
there was no chance of defeat.
Satantango Chapter 5.
When he couldn't help he stayed clear, praying, at first,
conventionally to God,
first time since the other Blitz, for life to win out.
But too many were dying, and presently, seeing no point, he
stopped.
Pynchon slothorp