Cele doua ceasuri arata, concomitent, doua forme diferite de timp, desi pe ambele destul de inexact. Al nostru intarzie peste masura, iar cel de acol… - László Krasznahorkai

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Cele doua ceasuri arata, concomitent, doua forme diferite de timp, desi pe ambele destul de inexact. Al nostru intarzie peste masura, iar cel de acolo de afara... nu masoara timpul, ci eternitatea aservirii, iar cu treaba asta avem de-a face cat are de-a face creanga cu ploaia: suntem neputinciosi.

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About László Krasznahorkai

László Krasznahorkai (; born 5 January 1954) is a Hungarian novelist and screenwriter known for difficult and demanding novels, often labeled postmodern, with dystopian and melancholic themes. Several of his works, including his novels Satantango (, 1985) and The Melancholy of Resistance (, 1989), have been turned into feature films by Hungarian film director Béla Tarr.

Biography information from Wikipedia

Also Known As

Native Name: Krasznahorkai László
Alternative Names: Laszlo Krasznahorkai
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Additional quotes by László Krasznahorkai

...because he came here on the wrong day, because he was born in the wrong time, because he had been born, it was all wrong from the very beginning, he should have known, should have sensed, that today was not the day to begin anything, nor was tomorrow, there were no days before him now, as there had never even been any, just as there was not and never would be a day...

...all normal expectations went by the board and one’s daily habits were disrupted by a sense of ever-spreading all-consuming chaos which rendered the future unpredictable, the past unrecallable and ordinary life so haphazard that people simply assumed that whatever could be imagined might come to pass, that if there were only one door in a building it would no longer open, that wheat would grow head downwards into the earth not out of it, and that, since once could only note the symptoms of disintegration, the reasons for it remaining unfathomable and inconceivable, there was nothing anyone could do except to get a tenacious grip on anything that was still tangible…

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The entire end-of-October night was beating with a single pulse, its own strange rhythm sounding through trees and rain and mud in a manner beyond words or vision: a vision present in the low light, in the slow passage of darkness, in the blurred shadows, in the working of tired muscles; in the silence, in its human subjects, in the undulating surface of the metaled road; in the hair moving to a different beat than do the dissolving fibers of the body; growth and decay on their divergent paths; all these thousands of echoing rhythms, this confusing clatter of night noises, all parts of an apparently common stream, that is the attempt to forget despair; though behind things other things appear as if by mischief, and once beyond the power of the eye they no longer hang together. So with the door left open as if forever, with the lock that will never open.

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