Quotes from my Blog. Letters. Tatyana Miller
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Название: Quotes from my Blog. Letters
Автор: Tatyana Miller
Издательство: Издательские решения
Жанр: Публицистика: прочее
isbn: 9785005354327
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– Gustave Flaubert (1821—1880), from a letter to George Sand (1804—1876), in: “The George Sand-Gustave Flaubert Letters”, translated from the French by A.L. McKenzie
“I can’t explain myself. Everything about me is mysterious to me and I do not make any very strong effort to solve the puzzle.”
– E. B. White (1899—1985), from a letter to Arthur Hudson, New York, dated April, 1, 1955, in: “Letters of E.B. White”, edited by Lobrano Guth and Martha White
“I love you so and I do want to see you. I wish I could live with you or where you are and I’d never worry again.”
– Carrie Hughes (1873—1938), from a letter to Langston Hughes (1902—1967), dated March 8, 1935, in: “My Dear Boy: Carrie Hughes’s Letters to Langston Hughes, 1926—1938”
“The only words with any meaning are these: come back. I want to be with you, I love you. If you hear this, you will prove yourself courageous and sincere.
Otherwise, I pity you.
But I love you, embrace you, and know we’ll see each other again.”
– Arthur Rimbaud (1854—1891), from a letter to Paul Verlaine (1844—1896), dated July 5, 1873, in: “I Promise to be Good. The Letters of Arthur Rimbaud”, translated from the French by Watt Mason
“now I am here alone: without you, without life ….”
– Luigi Pirandello (1867—1936), from a letter to Marta Abba (1900—1988), dated March 15, 1929, in: “Pirandello’s Love Letters to Marta Abba”, translated from the Italian by Benito Ortolani
“Truth is, so great, that I wouldn’t like to speak, or sleep, or listen, or love. To feel myself trapped, with no fear of blood, outside time and magic, within your own fear, and your great anguish, and within the very beating of your heart. All this madness, if I asked it of you, I know, in your silence, there would be only confusion. I ask you for violence, in the nonsense, and you, you give me grace, your light and your warmth. I’d like to paint you, but there are no colors, because there are so many, in my confusion, the tangible form of my great love.”
– Frida Kahlo (1907—1954), from a letter to Diego Rivera (1886—1957), in: “The Diary Of Frida Kahlo: An Intimate Self-Portrait”
“How stupid it is that that heart of mine has virtually turned me into a prisoner. Some
day I’ll ignore it – & I’ll do anything I feel I must do – heart or no heart. Rather death than
living as I live.”
– Alfred Stieglitz (1864—1946), from a letter to Georgia O’Keeffe (1887—1986), Lake George, New York, dated June 25, 1929, in: “My Faraway One. Selected Letters of Georgia O’Keeffe and Alfred Stieglitz. Volume 1, 1915—1933″
“… believe me, all you are suffering – your tiredness, your aches, all the pains that seem to be coming from the body but are not, pains of which no physician will ever find the cause-have on the contrary their root in this: that they are Life, all the Life that is in you, all the possibilities of being that are in you and live in you, without your even realizing it. They wear you out, distress you, depress you, exasperate you, continuously and vehemently taking your spirit by storm, or trying to forcibly remove the blocks of your conscience – perhaps too narrow and bourgeois – inside which you keep yourself bottled up.”
– Luigi Pirandello (1867—1936), from a letter to Marta Abba (1900—1988), dated July 13, 1928, in: “Pirandello’s Love Letters to Marta Abba”, translated from the Italian by Benito Ortolani
“At every moment of my life, God knows, I have always feared offending you, not God. I have tried to please you, rather than him.”
– Héloïse d’Argenteuil (1101? —1163/4?), from a letter to Pierre Abelard (1079—1142), in: “The Letters of Heloise and Abelard. A translation of their correspondence and related writings”, translated from the French by Mary Martin McLaughlin with Bonnie Wheeler
“Darling, you’re failure to reply to my letter has reduced me to a state of ridiculous panic. This simply mustn’t be. Please write at once, even if it’s only to tell me I’m impossible. I’m always rather impetuous & foolish on paper. And off it too. You must be patient with me. I care for you rather a lot.”
– Iris Murdoch (1919—1999), from a letter to David Hicks (1929—1998), Brussels, dated November 6, 1945, in: “Iris Murdoch, a Writer At War. Letters and Diaries, 1939—1945″
“… to a writer, a child is an alibi. If I should never in all my years write anything worth reading, I can always explain that by pointing to my child.”
– E. B. White (1899—1985), from a letter to Gustave s. Lobrano, New York, dated December, 1930, in: “Letters of E.B. White”, edited by Lobrano Guth and Martha White
“I don’t love you anymore; on the contrary, I detest you. You are a vile, mean, beastly slut. You don’t write to me at all; you don’t love your husband; you know how happy your letters make him, and you don’t write him six lines of nonsense…”
– Napoleon Bonaparte (1769—1821), from a letter to Joséphine de Beauharnais (1763—1814), dated November, 1796 (pbs.org)
“I wish, my love, that your love were less sure of me, so that you would be more anxious. But the more reason I have given you for confidence in the past, the more you neglect me now.”
– Héloïse d’Argenteuil (1101? —1163/4?), from a letter to Pierre Abelard (1079—1142), in: “The Letters of Heloise and Abelard. A translation of their correspondence and related writings”, translated from the French by Mary Martin McLaughlin with Bonnie Wheeler
“You leave me without news of you? You say that you prefer to be forgotten, rather than to complain ceaselessly, as it is very useless and since you will not be forgotten; complain then…”
– George Sand (1804—1876), from a letter to Gustave Flaubert (1821—1880), Nohant, dated May 7, 1875, in: “The George Sand-Gustave Flaubert Letters”, translated from the French by A.L. McKenzie
“I love you all the more because you are growing more unhappy. How you torment yourself, and how you disturb yourself about life! for all of which you complain, is life; it has never been better for anyone or in any time. One feels it more or less, one understands it more or less, one suffers with it more or less, and the more one is in advance of the age one lives in, the more one suffers. We pass like shadows on a background of clouds which the sun seldom pierces, and we cry ceaselessly for the sun which can do no more for us. It is for us to clear away our clouds.”
– George СКАЧАТЬ