László Krasznahorkai Quotes

this epidemic of fear was not born out of some genuine, daily increasing certainty of disaster but of an infection of the imagination whose susceptibility to its own terrors might eventually lead to an actual catastrophe, in other words the false premonition that a man who had lost his bearings might succumb to once the inner structure of his life,

Imaginile i se perindau in tacere, iar si iar, prin fata ochilor, intr-o succesiune tot mai rigida, parca tot ce considera omul ca-i important sa fie pastrat ar avea o ordine independenta si indisolubila, iar in timp ce memoria lucreaza sa confere certitudine si existenta prezentul atat de vremelnic, validand firele regulii vii in tesatura libera a evenimentelor , il obliga pe om ca podul peste haul ce-l desparte de propria viata sa nu-l construiasca din libertate, ci din propriile satisfactii spasmodice.

لا تختفي علائم المعاناة من غير أثر

He heard hundreds of exhausted feet scraping the ground behind him, he saw the stray cats at his own feet as they scattered in fear before the silently advancing mass of raised iron stakes, but he felt nothing except the weight of the hand on his shoulder steering him through the army of fur caps and heavy boots. Don't be afraid, the other man repeated. Valuska gave a quick nod and glanced up at the sky. He glanced up and suddenly had the sensation that the sky wasn't where it was supposed to be; terrified, he looked up again and confirmed the fact that there was indeed nothing there, so he bowed his head and surrendered to the fur caps and boots, realizing that it was no use to search because what he sought was lost, swallowed up by this coming together of forces, of details, of this earth, this marching.

For minutes on end he could not tell whether he was really hearing howls of pain, or whether it was simply that his years of long, exhausting work had rendered him incapable of distinguishing between the general noise and ancient prehistoric screams that were somehow preserved in time and now were being raised by the rain, like dust.

The light gave him hope but he was afraid of it too.

În liniștea ce cuprinse dintr-o dată totul, în muțenia profundă în care până și stropii de ploaie plesneau fără zgomot când atingeau pământul, ei crezând că au asurzit, întrucât de simțit simțeau, dar de auzit nu puteau să audă deloc nici vâjâitul vântului, nici acea adiere ciudată, călduță care acum îi atinse ușor, totuși, lui i se păru c-ar auzi cum zbârnâitul necontenit și râsul răsunător de adineauri sunt brusc înlocuite de un chelălăit și răsună sforăituri sinistre, văzând chiar că pornesc după el, astfel că-și acoperi ochii cu brațul și izbucni în plâns. „Vezi asta?” șopti încremenit Irimias, strângând atât de puternic brațul lui Petrina, încât i s-au albit degetele. În jurul trupului se înteți vântul, iar în liniștea deplină cadavrul de un alb orbitor începu să se ridice incert... apoi, când ajunse la înălțimea vârfurilor stejarilor se clătină pe neașteptate, prăbușindu-se convulsiv, ca să ajungă, în final, din nou pe pământ, în mijlocul poieniței. Văzând ce se întâmplă, vocile lipsite de trup de adineauri au început să se certe furios, asemenea unui cor nemulțumit, care iar se vedea nevoit să-și asume un eșec, fără să fi avut vreo vină. Petrina gâfâi. „Tu ai crezut asta?” „Mă strădui să cred”, spuse Irimias, cu fața lividă. „Oare de când tot încearcă? Copila-i moartă de două zile.” „Petrina, poate-i prima dată în viața mea când simt că mi-e frică.” „Cumetre...pot să te întreb ceva?” „Tu ce crezi...?” „Ce cred...?” „Tu ce crezi...ăăă...există și iad...?” Irimias înghiți în sec. „Cine știe. Poate.

نحن غارقون في الخراء يا صديقي، ولا نستطيع أن نفعل شيئًا في هذا الشأن إلى حين، علينا البقاء معهم

There is an intense relationship between proximate objects, a much weaker one between objects further away, and as for the really distant ones there is none at all, and that is the nature of God.

For minutes on end he could not tell whether he was really hearing howls of pain, or whether it was simply that his years of long, exhausting work had rendered him incapable of distinguishing between the general noise and ancient prehistoric screams that were somehow preserved in time ('the evidence of suffering does not disappear without a trace,' he hopefully remarked) and now were being raised by the rain, like dust.

it was not the pandemic that was the danger, but instead this infection, the main symptom of which was that people showed the worst side of themselves, and they were weak, immeasurably weak and immeasurably idiotic,

"Catastrophe! Of course! Last judgement! Horseshit! It's you that are the catastrophe, you're the bloody last judgement, your feet don't even touch the ground, you bunch of sleepwalkers. I wish you were dead, the lot of you. Let's make a bet,' and here he shook Nadaban by the shoulders, ‘that you don't even know what I'm talking about!! Because you don't talk, you "whisper" or "expostulate"; you don't walk down the street but "proceed feverishly"; you don't enter a place but "cross its threshold", you don't feel cold or hot, but "find yourselves shivering" or "feeling the sweat pour down you"! I haven't heard a straight word for hours, you can only mew and caterwaul; because if a hooligan throws a brick through your window you invoke the last judgement, because your brains are addled and filled up with steam, because if someone sticks your nose in shit all you do is sniff, stare and cry "sorcery!

He looked tired, exhausted even, but it was as if this were the specific thing that had exhausted him, not ordinary everyday matters but one single all-consuming care; it was obviously a fatigue born out of decades of vigilance, exhaustion owing to the knowledge that any moment he might be killed by that immeasurable weight of fat.

When we speak, we speak fluent, unbroken sentences, and this kind of speech doesn’t need any periods. Only God needs the period — and at the end He will use one, I am sure.

In vain would we talk about nature, nature doesn’t want this; it is no use to talk about the divine, the divine doesn’t want this, and anyway, no matter how much we want to, we are unable to talk about anything other than ourselves, because we are only capable of talking about history, about the human condition, about that never-changing quality whose essence carries such titillating relevance only for us; otherwise, from the viewpoint of that “divine otherwise,” this essence of ours is, actually, possibly of no consequence whatsoever, for ever and aye.