Elias Canetti Quotes

You don’t have to know a philosopher’s every syllable to know why he rubs you the wrong way. You may know it best after a few of his sentences, and les and less well after that. The important thing is to see his web and move away before you tear it.

The once-seen does not exist yet. The always seen no longer exists.

Books have no life; they lack feeling maybe, and perhaps cannot feel pain, as animals and even plants feel -pain. But what proof have we that inorganic objects can feel no pain? Who knows if a book may not yearn for other books, its companions of many years, in some way strange to us and therefore never yet perceived? Every thinking being knows those moments in which the traditional frontier set by science between the organic and the inorganic, seems artificial and outdated, like every frontier drawn by men. Is not a secret antagonism to this division revealed in the very phrase 'dead matter' ? For the dead must once have been the living. Let us admit then of a substance that it is dead, have we not in so doing endowed it with an erstwhile life.

You can tirelessly keep on reading the same author, revere, admire, praise him, exalt him to the skies, know and recite each of his sentences by heart, and yet remain completely unaffected by him, as if he had never demanded anything of you and not said anything at all.

La parálisis entre muerte y muerte: ninguna palabra libre entre medio, ningún paso libre. La parálisis más grave, esa esperanza sin esperanza de que a pesar de todo la supere.

¡Oh, la comodidad de los creyentes que pueden disiparlo todo, que pueden consolarse con la idea de un reencuentro que no les será concedido nunca! ¡Lo que daría uno por vivir en ese mundo tranquilo y virtuoso en el que los muertos sólo se han ido de viaje! En el que basta con llamar adecuadamente para verlos y oírlos, al menos por un breve tiempo, antes de llegar del todo a ellos. En el que se pueden enfadar con nosotros y conseguir así que los calmemos; en el que pasan frío, hambre y sed y se preocupan por los deudos. Mi anhelo de ese mundo de la fe es a veces tan intenso que no soy capaz de concebir otra idea. Veo entonces las sombras de Odiseo y deseo que las mías se encuentren entre ellas. Dibujo su imagen en el vacío y una hábil voz dice en ese preciso instante: ¡Cree, y las tendrás cuando quieras! Pero es esta voz la que me hace entrar en razón. No puedo comprar a mis muertos. No puedo permitir a nadie que negocie entre ellos y yo. Si están cautivos, que me lo hagan saber, y yo pondré todo mi empeño en liberarlos. Si están rendidos, todavía me queda tiempo para dejarme llevar por esa misma terrible rendición/sumisión, y el plazo que tengo hasta entonces, el plazo de la rebelión, es lo más valioso que poseo. Si no están en ninguna parte, no quiero ninguna ilusión engañosa en torno a ellos, allí acaban para mí todas las mentiras y todas las ficciones, allí, y sólo allí, quiero la verdad más pura.

Extender sobre el mundo hecho pedazos un cielo claro que vuelva a unirlo.

A los alemanes, los seis millones de judíos asesinados les han impregnado el cuerpo y el alma; nunca más habrá un alemán que no sea también judío.

Vom Zufall des Gelesenen hängt es ab, was du bist.

Is there still a possibility of public truth?
The prime condition for that would be that you pose your own questions, not just answer them. The questions of others have a distorting influence, one adapts to them, accepts words and concepts that should be avoided at all costs.
Ideally, you should use only words which you have filled with new meaning.

Books have no life; they lack feeling maybe, and perhaps cannot feel pain, as animals and even plants feel pain. But what proof have we that inorganic objects can feel no pain? Who knows if a book may not yearn for other books, its companions of many years, in some way strange to us and therefore never yet perceived?

Yapıyorlar, ama ne yaptıklarının bilincinde değiller, birtakım alışkanlıklar edinmişler, ama bunun nedenini bilmiyorlar; ömürleri boyunca dolaşıp durdukları halde yollarını bulamıyorlar: kitleden ayrılamayan, koyun gibi onun peşinden gidenler için doğaldır bunların tümü. Sy123

...no mind ever grew fat on a diet of novels. The pleasure which they occasionally offer is far too heavily paid for: they undermine the finest characters. They teach us to think ourselves into other men's places. Thus we acquire a taste for change. The personality becomes dissolved in pleasing figments of imagination. The reader learns to understand every point of view. Willingly he yields himself to the pursuit of other people's goals and loses sight of his own. Novels are so many wedges which the novelist, an actor with his pen, inserts into the closed personality of the reader. The better he calculates the size of the wedge and the strength of the resistance, so much the more completely does he crack open the personality of the victim. Novels should be prohibited by the State.

If one has lived long enough, there is danger of succumbing to the word “God” merely because it was always there.

"THE CROWD, suddenly there where there was nothing before, is a mysterious and universal phenomenon. A few people may have been standing together-five, ten or twelve, not more; nothing has been announced, nothing is expected. Suddenly everywhere is black with people and more come streaming from all sides as though streets had only one direction. Most of them do not know what has happened and, if questioned, have no answer; but they hurry to be there where most other people are. There is a determination in their movement which is quite different from the expression of ordinary curiosity. It seems as though the movement of some of them transmits itself to the others. But that is not all; they have a goal which is there before they can find words for it." (16)

I noticed in the front row a small, very pale, almost white man, old, tremendously alert, old in the only way I love old age, namely more alive for all the years, more attentive, more unrelenting, expectant and ready, as though he still had to make up his mind about most things and must not disregard anything.

There are books, that one has for twenty years without reading them, that one always keeps at hand, that one takes along from city to city, from country to country, carefully packed, even when there is very little room, and perhaps one leafs through them while removing them from a trunk; yet one carefully refrains from reading even a complete sentence. Then after twenty years, there comes a moment when suddenly, as though under a high compulsion, one cannot help taking in such a book from beginning to end, at one sitting: it is like a revelation. Now one knows why one made such a fuss about it. It had to be with one for a long time; it had to travel; it had to occupy space; it had to be a burden; and now it has reached the goal of its voyage, now it reveals itself, now it illuminates the twenty bygone years it mutely lived with one. It could not say so much if it had not been there mutely the whole time, and what idiot would dare to assert that the same things had always been in it.