...instead I find myself more and more outside; from one courtyard I move to another courtyard, as if in this palace all the doors served only for leaving and never for entering.
Italo Calvino...eyes that, like those of children, look at an eternal present without forgiveness.
Italo CalvinoStichwörter: children eternity forgiveness eyes
I am the man who comes and goes between the bar and the telephone booth. Or, rather:that man is called 'I' and you know nothing else about him, just as this station is called only 'station' and beyond it there exists nothing except the unanswered signal of a telephone ringing in a dark room of a distant city.
Italo CalvinoStichwörter: reading writing literature characterization setting point-of-view
I felt a kind of vertigo, as if I were merely plunging from one world to another, and in each I arrived shortly after the end of the world had taken place.
Italo CalvinoWith the smell of beer I try to get the smell of death off me. And only the smell of death will get the smell of beer off you, like all the drinkers whose graves I have to dig.
Italo CalvinoStichwörter: death beer alcohol
the cemetery is the home of those who are not here, come in.
Italo CalvinoStichwörter: home death the-dead cemeteries
again I am torn between the necessity and the impossibility of answering.
Italo CalvinoStichwörter: speech answers impossible
To write, for example, a crime that is horrible but which somehow 'resembles' the butterfly, which would be light and fine like the butterfly. I could also describe the butterfly, but bearing in mind the horrible scene of a crime, so that the butterfly would become something frightful.
Italo CalvinoStichwörter: writing description
Ogni vita è un enciclopedia, una biblioteca, un campionario di stili, dove tutto può essere continuamente rimescolato e riordinato in tutti i modi possibili
Italo CalvinoWriting always means hiding something in such a way that it then is discovered; because the truth that can come from my pen is like a shard that has been chipped from a great boulder by a violent impact, then flung far away; because there is no certitude outside falsification.
Italo CalvinoStichwörter: writing
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