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I immediately recognized Karoliniškės’s cramped buildings and the empty street; I recognized the yard where even children walk alone, play alone. I wasn’t surprised by the face, either, her face—the frightened, elongated face of a madonna, the eyes that did not look at me, but solely into her own inner being. Only the old wooden house with walls blackened by rain and the yellow leaves scattered by a yellow wind made me uneasy. A house like a warning, a caution whispered by hidden lips.
I immediately recognized Karoliniškės’s cramped buildings and the empty street; I recognized the yard where even children walk alone, play alone. I wasn’t surprised by the face, either, her face—the frightened, elongated face of a madonna, the eyes that did not look at me, but solely into her own inner being. Only the old wooden house with walls blackened by rain and the yellow leaves scattered by a yellow wind made me uneasy. A house like a warning, a caution whispered by hidden lips.
because sometimes it seems that everything in the world happens for me. The grimy rains fall for me, in the evening the yellowish window lights glimmer for me, the leaden clouds contort above my head.
because sometimes it seems that everything in the world happens for me. The grimy rains fall for me, in the evening the yellowish window lights glimmer for me, the leaden clouds contort above my head.
Inside, she is teeming with hidden eyes, while the two eyes that are visible to everyone are merely two lights, two openings breached by the world squeezing its way into her unapproachable soul. Soul, spirit, ego, id…
Inside, she is teeming with hidden eyes, while the two eyes that are visible to everyone are merely two lights, two openings breached by the world squeezing its way into her unapproachable soul. Soul, spirit, ego, id…
Vilnius autumn lingers about; the air smells of damp dust—like a giant whale pulled out of a sea of dust. The evening wraps itself in a barely noticeable mist and the wet glitter of lights. No one drives by, everyone has forgotten us, Vilnius has abandoned us. A gust of wind carries off the mist, the ripples in the puddles slowly settle down, the pale reflections of the lights float again. This quietly steaming broth of autumn quietly intoxicates. On evenings like this, Vilnius, with its toothless whale-mouth, whispers hoarse, mysterious words, entices and lures you, swallows you up and spits
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Vilnius autumn lingers about; the air smells of damp dust—like a giant whale pulled out of a sea of dust. The evening wraps itself in a barely noticeable mist and the wet glitter of lights. No one drives by, everyone has forgotten us, Vilnius has abandoned us. A gust of wind carries off the mist, the ripples in the puddles slowly settle down, the pale reflections of the lights float again. This quietly steaming broth of autumn quietly intoxicates. On evenings like this, Vilnius, with its toothless whale-mouth, whispers hoarse, mysterious words, entices and lures you, swallows you up and spits
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When you’ve been spat out, you see the damp, dusk-enveloped buildings of Vilnius lurking in the dark corners of the streets in an entirely different way (that evening I saw it that way). It seemed they were lying in ambush. It seemed Vilnius no longer breathed at all; it crouched and settled down, grimly waiting.
When you’ve been spat out, you see the damp, dusk-enveloped buildings of Vilnius lurking in the dark corners of the streets in an entirely different way (that evening I saw it that way). It seemed they were lying in ambush. It seemed Vilnius no longer breathed at all; it crouched and settled down, grimly waiting.
She emerged as if from the earth, or perhaps she was born of the fall dampness—she
She emerged as if from the earth, or perhaps she was born of the fall dampness—she
outside which yawns a gray void.
outside which yawns a gray void.
the darkness lights up the dimness; the blackish rays suck the last remains of the day out of the room.
the darkness lights up the dimness; the blackish rays suck the last remains of the day out of the room.
faceless figures keep trudging by—I don’t want to grace them with the word “faces,” those skulls with skin stretched over them. They walk along without even suspecting they no longer are.
faceless figures keep trudging by—I don’t want to grace them with the word “faces,” those skulls with skin stretched over them. They walk along without even suspecting they no longer are.
The history of the world is a chronicle of humanity’s futile war with cockroaches. Alas, the cockroaches always win.
The history of the world is a chronicle of humanity’s futile war with cockroaches. Alas, the cockroaches always win.
it’s They who surround you, who hold you in a siege like a live castle, whose walls, alas, are pathetically weak. A human being can’t withstand a siege. He can hold out for a month, a year, a decade; but sooner or later he breaks, at
A shabby pale blue couch and a crooked little table protruded from the wall; an ashtray made of bent tin, full of cigarette butts, billowed dust from the table.
Like all of us, he essentially did nothing.
We have no past, we never were. We just ARE, you know? We’ve lost our past and now we’ll never find it. We’re like carrots in a vegetable bed. After all, you wouldn’t say a carrot has a past?”
If you have a spirit, you’re beautiful. Martynas
It’s as if you were sprawled all alone in a broken-down dinghy with your legs and arms paralyzed, and a mountain stream was quickly carrying you closer to a waterfall; not a soul about—only steep rocky shores and the thunder of water plunging into the nearby abyss. The spray from the waterfall hangs above the foaming rapids, the end is near, and you can’t even roll out of the boat and sink to the bottom with a rock,
You’re already dead, but you can think; that’s the worst of it: you grasp everything.
I was absolutely alone, but I couldn’t for a moment be by myself; I couldn’t avoid Their hellish guardianship.
It seemed to me that the office was slowly widening, that the walls were receding from me—or perhaps I was the one cowering and shrinking and growing ever smaller.
And she picked an old geezer.
All of the good in people is the same, but the kingdom of evil is different in everyone. I
Pale-faced, pustular women spying on you through the glass of unwashed windows.
Imagine a beast that devours light—and not just light: words too, and love, and music, and dreams, and… Imagine its stare… No, I don’t know how to express it. All I can do is hope every thinking person understands what an absolute, oppressive void is.
lean. A bearded head, overgrown with curly hair, was stuck on his thin neck as if on a pole.
you left there sucked dry, debilitated—as if you had left part of your strength behind with him.
He behaved sweetly and excessively politely, almost perversely so.
His urgent craving to socialize, his desire to please everyone, was revolting.
between his legs hangs a thick sausage of waste.
How can you explain that always and everywhere, as far as you can see, one idiot rules a thousand intelligent people, and they quietly obey?
You must experience a great deal of evil in your life, real evil; you must thoroughly scrutinize its pupil-less eyes. Besides, you must have a seed of real evil in yourself. It’s awful, but that’s the way it is: if you don’t have evil within yourself, you won’t be able to recognize and comprehend the evil in the world.
An identified enemy is almost a conquered enemy. Everyone would have risen up against Them a long time ago; They would have been destroyed at some point.
Never mind the sea, she had never tasted lemons! A lemon could injure her innocence, you know?”
“You were explaining why you’re attracted to horrible people.” “Oh… Because I can see only two signs in a person’s face—either unhappiness, or peace. The kind of peace that means stupidity, clean business, bacon, money, very soft furniture, fear of authority, endlessly just and moral behavior, shiny shoes that are never dirty, perfectly even dentures, a precise daily schedule, peaceful sleep…”
The symbolic phallus of Vilnius: short, stumpy and powerless. An organ of pseudo-powers that hasn’t been able to get aroused in a long time.
The great symbol of a castrated city, of castrated Lithuania, stuck onto every postcard, into every photo album, every tourist brochure. A perverted, shameless symbol: its impotence should be hidden, not acknowledged, or it should at least pretend it’s still capable of a thing or two.
“They actually know no one will listen to them. No one will hear what they say. So there’s no need to put even a speck of logic into what they’re spouting off about. It would be a useless waste of effort. Besides, they’re concerned about people’s health. Imagine what would happen if a political commentator suddenly said something intelligent. A catastrophe! Fifteen hundred people would get a heart attack. Three thousand would go into nervous shock from the unexpectedness of it. At least several dozen would start prophesying: they’ll decide the end of the world is coming…” “Comrade Martynas,
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Laima took advantage of the silence. She resembles a fish, a large cod. I always want to let her back into the ocean. She looks around quite serenely and announces:
That’s her style. She’s even weirdly secretive, like every fish.
They sigh in an apartment with a custom kitchen, custom bath and custom toilet provided by those setting the censorship framework. It’s particularly important that the Lithuanian writer have a custom toilet. He spends most of his time sitting on the custom toilet and writing nothing. Because his creative freedom is restricted. If he were given freedom, wouldn’t he just write like mad!
“Martis, maybe you really do hate Lithuanians?” “I’m a hundred percent Lithuanian, and no one’s going to force me to love myself,” Martynas says in a deathly calm,
