Betty died of a broken heart. Some people laugh when they hear that phrase, but that's because they don't know anything about the world. People die of broken hearts. It happens every day, and it will go on happening to the end of time.
Paul AusterÖyküler ancak onları anlatabilecek olanların başından geçer demişti biri bir gün: Aynı şekilde belki yaşantılar da onları yaşayabilecek olanlara sunarlar kendilerini.
Paul AusterAnd if Amsterdam was hell, and if hell was a memory, then he realized that perhaps there was some purpose to his being lost. Cut off from everything that was familiar to him, unable to discover even a single point of reference, he saw that his steps, by taking him nowhere, were taking him him nowhere but into himself. He was wandering inside himself, and he was lost. Far from troubling him, this state of being lost because a source of happiness, of exhilaration. He breathed it into his very bones. As if on the brink of some previously hidden knowledge, he breathed it into his very bones and said to himself, almost triumphantly: I am lost.
Paul AusterNo, she can weather his disappointments if she has to, that isn't the problem, she can put up with anything as long as she feels he is solidly with her, but that is precisely what she doesn't feel anymore, and even if he seems content to glide along with her out of old habits, the reflex of old affections, she is becoming ever more certain, no, certain is probably too strong a word for it, she is becoming ever more willing to entertain the idea that he has stopped loving her.
Paul AusterNevertheless, this is where it begins. The first word appears only at a moment when nothing can be explained anymore, at some instant of experience that defies all sense. To be reduced to saying nothing. Or else, to say himself: this is what haunts me. And then to realize, almost in the same breath, that this is what he haunts.
Paul AusterTag: haunting realisation
I wasn't able to think about them directly or summon them up in any conscious way, but as I put together their puzzles and played with their Lego pieces, building evermore complex and baroque structures, I felt that I was temporarily inhabiting them again--carrying on their little phantom lives for them by repeating the gestures they had made when they still had bodies.
Paul AusterMemory, therefore, not simply as the resurrection of one’s private past, but an immersion in the past of others, which is to say: history - which one both participates in and is a witness to, is a part of and apart from. Everything, therefore, is present in his mind at once, as if each element were reflecting the light of all the others, and at the same time emitting its own unique and unquenchable radiance.
Paul AusterFor the first time in his life, he stopped worrying about results, and as a consequence the terms “success” and “failure” had suddenly lost their meaning for him. The true purpose of art was not to create beautiful objects, he discovered. It was a method of understanding, a way of penetrating the world and finding one’s place in it, and whatever aesthetic qualities an individual canvas might have were almost an incidental by-product of the effort to engage oneself in this struggle, to enter into the thick of things.
Paul AusterTag: art
Then, without any warning, we both straightened up, turned towards each other, and began to kiss. After that, it is difficult for me to speak of what happened. Such things have little to do with words, so little, in fact, that it seems almost pointless to try to express them. If anything, I would say that we were falling into each other, that we were falling so fast and so far that nothing could catch us.
Paul AusterTag: love
إن الكلمات لا تأتي إلا عندما أعتقد أني لن أتمكَّن من العثور عليها بعد الآن ، في اللحظة التي
أيأس من إيجادها مرة أخرى . إن كل يوم يجلب معه الصراع نفسه ، الخواء نفسه
، الرغبة نفسها في النسيان وفي عدم النسيان . عندما يبدأ الأمر ، فإنه لا يبدأ إلا
هنا ، لا يبدأ إلا عند هذا الخط الذي يبدأ قلم الرصاص برسمه . وتبدأ القصة
وتنتهي ، وتتقدم ومن ثم تضيع ، وبين كل كلمة وأخرى كم من فترة صمت ،
وكلمات تهرب وتتلاشى ، ولا تعود أبدًا .
* بول أوستر - في بلاد الأشياء الأخيرة
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