Arturo Bandini: -What does happiness mean to you Camilla?
Camilla: -That you can fall in love with whoever you want to,
and not feel ashamed of it.
All that was good in me thrilled in my heart at that moment, all that I hoped for in the profound, obscure meaning of my existence. Here was the endlessly mute placidity of nature, indifferent to the great city; here was the desert beneath these streets, around these streets, waiting for the city to die, to cover it with timeless sand once more. There came over me a terrifying sense of understanding about the meaning and the pathetic destiny of men. The desert was always there, a patient white animal, waiting for men to die, for civilizations to flicker and pass into the darkness. Then men seemed brave to me, and I was proud to be numbered among them. All the evil of the world seemed not evil at all, but inevitable and good and part of that endless struggle to keep the desert down.
John FanteSinema salonlarından çıkıp gerçeğe alışabilmek için gözlerini kırpıştırdıklarını gördüm, dünyada neler olup bittiğini öğrenmek için sendeleyerek evlerine Times okumaya gidişlerini izledim. Onların gazetelerine kustum ben, edebiyatlarını okudum, örf ve adetlerine uydum, yemeklerini yedim, sanatlarına esnedim. Ama ben yoksulum, soyadımın sonu ünlü bir harfle bitiyor ve benden nefret ediyorlar, babamdan ve babamın babasından da, ellerinden gelse kanımı içerler ama yaşlanmışlar artık, güneşin altında ölüyorlar, oysa ben genç ve umut doluyum, yaşadığımız zamanı ve ülkemi seviyorum ve sana Yağlı dediğimde yüreğim değildi konuşan, eski bir yara titreşti sadece. Yaptığımdan çok utanıyorum.
John FanteStichwörter: john-fante ask-the-dust toza-sor
¿Resucitan los muertos? Los libros dicen que no, la noche grita que sí
John FanteVicdan azabı içerisinde bağışlanmayı düşündü. İyi de, kimden? Hangi Tanrı'dan? O bir zamanlar inandığı bir mitken, mit olduklarını hissettiğim inançlara dönüşmüşlerdi.
Bu "Deniz" bu da "İnsan", deniz gerçek ve İnsan Denizin gerçek olduğuna inanıyor. Sonra başını başka tarafa; Denizden öteye çeviriyor İnsan ve her yer Kara. Yürüyor, yürüyor her yer uçsuz bucaksız Kara. Bir yıl, beş yıl, on yıl geçiyor Deniz'i hiç göremiyor. Denize ne oldu, diye soruyor kendine. Geride kaldı, diye yanıtlıyor İnsan, hafızamda saklı. Deniz bir mit. Hiç yoktu! Ama Deniz vardı! Deniz kıyısında doğdun ey İnsan! Yüzdün o Denizin sularında! Doyurdu, huzur verdi sana. Büyüleyici uzaklıkları ile düşleri besledi.
Hayır belki de Deniz hiç olmadı. Düş gördü İnsan, olmasını diledi sadece, baksana Karada yürüyor yıllardır. Gördü mü bir birikinti dahi. Denizi göremeyecek artık İnsan. Bir zamanlar var olduğunu sandığı o mit.
Ama diyor İnsan gülümseyerek, hala Denizin tuzu ağzında: Binlerce Karayolu dahi olsa da kafam karışmaz çünkü yüreğimdeki kan o harikulade kaynağına; Denize, geri dönecektir."
│ John Fante - Toza Sor
Stichwörter: edebiyat metafor tanrı
Yaşamak yeterince zor, ölmekse büyük işti.
John FanteSo it happened at last: I was about to become a thief, a cheap milk-stealer. Here was your lash-in-the-pen genius, your one story-writer: a thief.
John FanteStichwörter: humor milk humorous thief ask-the-dust
I went to the library. I looked at the magazines, at the pictures in them. One day I went to the bookshelves, and pulled out a book. It was Winesburg, Ohio.. I sat at a long mahogany table and began to read. All at once my world turned over. The sky fell in. The book held me. The tears came. My heart beat fast. I read until my eyes burned. I took the book home. I read another Anderson. I read and I read, and I was heartsick and lonely and in love with a book, many books, until it came naturally, and I sat there with a pencil and a long tablet, and tried to write, until I felt I could not go on because the words would not come as they did in Anderson, they only came like drops of blood from my heart.
John FanteStichwörter: writing
I stretched out on the bed and slept. It was twilight when I awakened and turned on the light. I felt better, no longer tired. I went to the typewriter and sat before it. My thought was to write a sentence, a single perfect sentence. If I could write one good sentence I could write two and if I could write two I could write three, and if I could write three I could write forever. But suppose I failed? Suppose I had lost all of my beautiful talent? Suppose it had burned up in the fire of Biff Newhouse smashing my nose or Helen Brownell dead forever? What would happen to me? Would I go to Abe Marx and become a busboy again? I had seventeen dollars in my wallet. Seventeen dollars and the fear of writing. I sat erect before the typewriter and blew on my fingers. Please God, please Knut Hamsun, don’t desert me now. I started to write and I wrote:
“The time has come,” the Walrus said,
“To talk of many things:
Of shoes—and ships—and sealing wax—
Of cabbages—and kings—”
I looked at it and wet my lips. It wasn’t mine, but what the hell, a man had to start someplace.
Stichwörter: optimism persistence writing
The bartender put a notepad and a pencil before me. Breathing hard, the pencil trembling, I wrote:
Dear Sinclair Lewis:
You were once a god, but now you are a swine. I once reverenced you, admired you, and now you are nothing. I came to shake your hand in adoration, you, Lewis, a giant among American writers, and you rejected it. I swear I shall never read another line of yours again. You are an ill-mannered boor. You have betrayed me. I shall tell H. L. Muller about you, and how you have shamed me. I shall tell the world.
Arturo Bandini
P.S. I hope you choke on your steak.
Stichwörter: funny
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