Italo Calvino Quotes

the cemetery is the home of those who are not here, come in.

The art of writing tales consists in an ability to draw the rest of life from the little one has understood of it; but life begins again at the end of the page, and one realises that one has knew nothing whatsoever.

Elsewhere is a negative mirror. The traveler recognizes the little that is his, discovering the much he has not had and will never have.

How can you keep up with her, this woman who is always reading another book besides the one before her eyes, a book that does not yet exist, but which, since she wants it, cannot fail to exist?

In the lives of emperors there is a moment which follows pride in the boundless extension of the territories we have conquered, and the melancholy and relief of knowing we shall soon give up any thought of knowing and understanding them. There is a sense of emptiness that comes over us at evening, with the odor of the elephants after the rain and the sandalwood ashes growing cold in the braziers, a dizziness that makes rivers and mountains tremble on the fallow curves of the planispheres where they are portrayed, and rolls up, one after the other, the despatches announcing to us the collapse of the last enemy troops, from defeat to defeat, and flakes the wax of seals of obscure kings who beseech our armies’ protection, offering in exchange annual tributes of precious metals, tanned hides, and tortoise shell. It is the desperate moment when we discover that this empire, which had seemed to us the sum of all wonders, is an endless, formless ruin, that corruption’s gangrene has spread too far to be healed by our scepter, that the triumph over enemy sovereigns has made us the heirs of their long undoing.

If on a winter's night a traveler, outside the town of Malbork, leaning from the steep slope without fear of wind or vertigo, looks down in the gathering shadow in a network of lines that enlace, in a network of lines that intersect, on the carpet of leaves illuminated by the moon around an empty grave-What story down there awaits its end?-he asks, anxious to hear the story.

"Why come to Trude? I asked myself. And I already wanted to leave.

You cand resume your flight whereever you like," they say to me, "but you will arive at another Trude, absolutely the same, detail by detail. The world is covered by a sole Trude which does not begin and does not end. Only the names of the airport changes."

Al llegar a cada nueva ciudad el viajero encuentra un pasado suyo que ya no sabia que tenia: la extrañeza de los que no eres o no posees mas, te espera al paso en los lugares extraños y no poseidos.
Marco [Polo] entra en una ciudad: ve a alguien que vive en una plaza una vida o un instante que podrian ser suyos; en el lugar de aquel hombre ahora hubiera podido estar el si se hubiese detenido en el tiempo mucho tiempo antes, o bien si mucho tiempo antes, en una encrucijada, en vez de tomar por un camino hubiese tomado por el opuesto y al cabo de una larga vuelta hubiera ido a encontrarse en el luhar de aquel hombre en aquella plaza. En adelante, de aquel pasado suyo verdadero o hipotetico, el queda excluido; no puede detenerse; debe continuar hasta otra ciudad donde lo espera otro pasado suyo, o algo que quizas habia sido un posible futuro y ahora es el presente de algun otro.
Los futuros no realizados son solo ramas del pasado: ramas secas.
-¿Viajas para revivir tu pasado?-era en ese momento la pregunta del Kan, que podia tambien formularse asi: ¿Viajas para encontrar tu futuro?
Y la respuesta de Marco:
-El otro lado es un espejo en negativo. El viajero reconoce lo poco que es suyo al descubrir lo mucho que no ha tenido y no tendra.

What makes love making and reading resemble each other most is that within both of them times and spaces open, different from measurable time and space

Among your books, in this assortment that does not make up a library, a dead or dormant part can still be distinguished, which is the store of volumes put aside, books read and rarely reread, or books you have not and will not read but have still retained (and dusted), and then a living part, which is the books you are reading or plan to read or from which you have not yet detached yourself or books you enjoy handling, seeing around you.

To fall asleep like a bird. To have a wing you could stick your head under, a world of branches suspended above the earthly world, barely glimpsed down below, muffled and remote. Once you begin rejecting your present state, there is no knowing where you can arrive.

"I, too, feel the need to reread the books I have already read," a third reader says, "but at every rereading I seem to be reading a new book, for the first time. Is it I who keep changing and seeing new things of which I was not previously aware? Or is reading a construction that assumes form, assembling a great number of variables, and therefore something that cannot be repeated twice according to the same pattern? Every time I seek to relive the emotion of a previous reading, I experience different and unexpected impressions, and do not find again those of before. At certain moments it seems to me that between one reading and the next there is a progression: in the sense, for example, of penetrating further into the spirit of the text, or of increasing my critical detachment. At other moments, on the contrary, I seem to retain the memory of the readings of a single book one next to another, enthusiastic or cold or hostile, scattered in time without a perspective, without a thread that ties them together. The conclusion I have reached is that reading is an operation without object; or that its true object is itself. The book is an accessory aid, or even a pretext."

The things that the novel does not say are necessarily more numerous than those it does say and only a special halo around what is written can give the illusion that you are reading also what is not written.

إنه ينبغي علينا أن نخصص في فترة النضج وقتًا لإعادة اكتشاف أهم قراءاتنا التي قمنا بها في الصبا. فإذا كانت الكتب لا تتغير -وهي في الواقع تتغير علي ضوء منظور تاريخي مختلف- فنحن أنفسنا تغيرنا ولقاؤنا الجديد يشكل أحداثًا جديدة.ولهذا فإن كل قراءة جديدة لعمل كلاسيكي هي اكتشاف، مثلها مثل القراءة الأولي. وكل قراءة أولى لعمل كلاسيكي هي في الحقيقة قراءة جديدة.

If a lover is wretched who invokes kisses of which he knows not the flavor, a thousand times more wretched is he who has had a taste of the flavor and then had it denied him.