Pensamos que somos las víctimas del tiempo. En realidad la vía del mundo no es fijada en ningún lugar. Cómo sería posible? Nosotros mismos somos nuestra propria jornada. Y por eso somos el tiempo también. Somos lo mismo. Fugitivo. Inescrutable. Desapíadado. (Noi credem ca suntem victime ale timpului. In realitate, insa, viata lumii nu se stabileste nicaieri. Cum ar putea? Noi insine suntem propria noastra calatorie. Si deci suntem timpul insusi. Suntem exact ca el. Efemeri. De neinteles. Fara mila.)
Cormac McCarthyHe said the right dreams for a man in peril were dreams of peril and all else was the call of languor and death
Cormac McCarthyFor this world also which seems to us a thing of stone and flower and blood is not a thing at all but a tale. And all in it is a tale and each tale the sum of all lesser tales and yet these are the selfsame tale and contain as well all within them. So everything is necessary. Every least thing. This is the hard lesson. Nothing can be dispensed with. Nothing despised. Because the seams are hid from us, you see. The joinery. The way in which the world is made. We have no way to know what could be taken away. What omitted. We have no way to tell what might stand and what might fall.
Cormac McCarthyTag: life world stories lessons
They'd put an awning up over the gravesite but the weather was all sideways and it did no good.
Cormac McCarthyA kapitány bólintott. Összekulcsolt kezét a két térde közé eresztette. Na és a békeszerződésről mi a véleményed? kérdezte. A gyerek a mellete ülő férfire tekintett. De az behunyt szemmel ült hátradőlve. Aztán a hüvelykujja körnét nézegette végül így felelt: Azt se tudom mi az.
Cormac McCarthyTag: sadness-shame
One spring morning timing the lean near-liquid progress of a horse on a track, the dust exploding, the rapid hasping of his hocks, coming up the straight foreshortened and awobble and passing elongate and birdlike wish harsh breaths and slatted brisket heaving and the muscles sliding and brunching in clocklike flexion under the wet black hide and a gout of foam hung from the long jaw and then gone in a muted hoofclatter, the aging magistrate snapped his thumb from the keep of the stopwatch he held and palmed it into his waistcoat pocket and looking at nothing, nor child nor horse, said anent that simple comparison of rotary motions and in the oratory to which he was prone that they had witnessed a thing against which time would not prevail.
Cormac McCarthy„Pamiętaj, że to, co wpuszczasz do głowy, pozostaje w niej na zawsze.
Cormac McCarthyWith the final onset of dark the iron cold locked down and the boy by now was shuddering violently. No moon rose beyond the murk and there was nowhere to go.
Cormac McCarthyTag: depressing
Wrinkle not thy sable brow at me, my friend. All will be known to you at last. To you as to every man.
Cormac McCarthyWho builds in stone seeks to alter the structure of the universe.
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