Mr. Codro's destiny is Ptolemaic; in other words, based on fiction. Ptolemaic says it all; it means above all fixed and unchanging, that is to say different from real life which is by nature changing and temporary. It means: not according to natural truth, but according to man's desire and the pretense inspired by his fear of dying and his desire for permanence.
Alberto SavinioStichwörter: future death change fiction destiny desire permanence ptolemy
They weren't true stories; they were better than that.
Alice HoffmanStichwörter: stories on-fiction fiction storytelling fairy-tale
Martin, at my age, eroticism is reduced to enjoying caramel custard and looking at widows' necks.
Carlos Ruiz ZafónWe take off into the cosmos, ready for anything: for solitude, for hardship, for exhaustion, death. Modesty forbids us to say so, but there are times when we think pretty well of ourselves. And yet, if we examine it more closely, our enthusiasm turns out to be all a sham. We don't want to conquer the cosmos, we simply want to extend the boundaries of Earth to the frontiers of the cosmos. For us, such and such a planet is as arid as the Sahara, another as frozen as the North Pole, yet another as lush as the Amazon basin. We are humanitarian and chivalrous; we don't want to enslave other races, we simply want to bequeath them our values and take over their heritage in exchange. We think of ourselves as the Knights of the Holy Contact. This is another lie. We are only seeking Man. We have no need of other worlds. A single world, our own, suffices us; but we can't accept it for what it is. We are searching for an ideal image of our own world: we go in quest of a planet, a civilization superior to our own but developed on the basis of a prototype of our primeval past. At the same time, there is something inside us which we don't like to face up to, from which we try to protect ourselves, but which nevertheless remains, since we don't leave Earth in a state of primal innocence. We arrive here as we are in reality, and when the page is turned and that reality is revealed to us - that part of our reality which we would prefer to pass over in silence - then we don't like it anymore.
Stanisław LemI held a brief debate with myself as to whether I should change my ordinary attire for something smarter. At last I concluded it would be a waste of labour. "Doubtless," though I, "she is some stiff old maid ; for though the daughter of Madame Reuter, she may well number upwards of forty winters; besides, if it were otherwise, if she be both young and pretty, I am not handsome, and no dressing can make me so, therefore I'll go as I am." And off I started, cursorily glancing sideways as I passed the toilet-table, surmounted by a looking-glass: a thin irregular face I saw, with sunk, dark eyes under a large, square forehead, complexion destitute of bloom or attraction; something young, but not youthful, no object to win a lady's love, no butt for the shafts of Cupid.
Charlotte BrontëStichwörter: age beauty youth fiction victorian appearance
Arvid reste sig för att gå. —Nej, sitt! –sitt!, sitt!—. Om någon hund varit närvarande, skulle han genast suttit.” // “Arvid se levantó para irse. —¡No, siéntate! –¡siéntate!, ¡siéntate!—. Si hubiera habido algún perro presente, éste se hubiera sentado de inmediato”.
August StrindbergStichwörter: fiction
I am a politician which means I am a liar and a crook. When I am not kissing babies I am stealing their lollypops.
Tom ClancyStichwörter: politics fiction dishonesty
Any capitalist . . . who had made sixty thousand pounds out of sixpence, always professed to wonder why the sixty thousand nearest Hands didn't each make sixty thousand pounds out of sixpence, and more or less reproached them every one for not accomplishing the little feat. What I did you can do. Why don't you go and do it?
Charles DickensStichwörter: capitalism fiction
Infatuation burns itself out,' she says. 'Friendship mixed with old chemistry--that can last a lifetime.
Tess CallahanStichwörter: fiction
Your heart is like a great river after a long spell of rain, spilling over its banks. All signposts that once stood on the ground are gone, inundated and carried away by that rush of water. And still the rain beats down on the surface of the river. Every time you see a flood like that on the news you tell yourself: That’s it. That’s my heart.
Haruki MurakamiStichwörter: fiction storyteller
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