ლუკა წოწორია > ლუკა's Quotes

“Sonnet XVII

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way than this:

where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep. ”
― Pablo Neruda

“,,- ადამიანის სიკვდილს რაღად მაყურებინეთ!
მაშინვე მშვიდად უპასუხეს:
- ადამიანი რომ გყვარებოდა.”
― გურამ დოჩანაშვილი

“[მამამ] ბოლოს მაინც მითხრა:
„ერთი რამ დაიმახსოვრე... მე მირჩევნია, შენ დაგჭრან, ვიდრე - შენ დაჭრა ვინმე...“ - ჩემ მიერ ძველი ხის მაგიდის უჯრიდან მოპარული და მილიციის განყოფილებიდან უკან გამოტანებული სანადირო დანა ქურთქუკის ჯიბეში ედო.
ახლაც არ ვიცი რამ მიკბინა. რა, რა და მეამბოხე არასოდეს ვყოფილვარ, არც მქონდა სახლში საამისოდ საქმე. მგონი, მომინდა უფრო საშიში ვგონებოდი, ვიდრე ვიყავი...
„რა გირჩევნია, მე მოვკლა თუ მე მომკლან?!“
გულნატკენი და ჩაფიქრებული ის დიდი ხნის წინ ჩავიდა. მე კი ისევ აქ ვზივარ, მოგონებების და სინანულის ჭრიჭინა ტროლეიბუსში...”
― Archil Kikodze, ჩიტის და კაცის ამბავი

“უმსხვერპლო სიტყვა ისევე ამაოა, როგორც უსურნელო ყვავილი, უნათლო შუქი, გინა სატრფოს მოკლებული მზეი”
― Konstantine Gamsakhurdia, დიდოსტატის კონსტანტინეს მარჯვენა

“Acquainted with the Night

I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain—and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,

But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And further still at an unearthly height,
One luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.”
― Robert Frost, West-Running Brook

“I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by
madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn
looking for an angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly
connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,
who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat
up smoking in the supernatural darkness of
cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities
contemplating jazz,
who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and
saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated,
who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes
hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy
among the scholars of war, ”
― Allen Ginsberg, Howl and Other Poems

“Even on the poorest streets people could be heard laughing. Some of these streets were completely dark, like black holes, and the laughter that came from who knows where was the only sign, the only beacon that kept residents and strangers from getting lost.”
― Roberto Bolaño, 2666

“To hear never-heard sounds,
To see never-seen colors and shapes,
To try to understand the imperceptible
Power pervading the world;
To fly and find pure ethereal substances
That are not of matter
But of that invisible soul pervading reality.
To hear another soul and to whisper to another soul;
To be a lantern in the darkness
Or an umbrella in a stormy day;
To feel much more than know.
To be the eyes of an eagle, slope of a mountain;
To be a wave understanding the influence of the moon;
To be a tree and read the memory of the leaves;
To be an insignificant pedestrian on the streets
Of crazy cities watching, watching, and watching.
To be a smile on the face of a woman
And shine in her memory
As a moment saved without planning.”
― Dejan Stojanovic

“I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.

Write, for instance: "The night is full of stars,
and the stars, blue, shiver in the distance."

The night wind whirls in the sky and sings.

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

On nights like this, I held her in my arms.
I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky.

She loved me, sometimes I loved her.
How could I not have loved her large, still eyes?

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
To think I don't have her. To feel that I've lost her.

To hear the immense night, more immense without her.
And the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass.

What does it matter that my love couldn't keep her.
The night is full of stars and she is not with me.

That's all. Far away, someone sings. Far away.
My soul is lost without her.

As if to bring her near, my eyes search for her.
My heart searches for her and she is not with me.

The same night that whitens the same trees.
We, we who were, we are the same no longer.

I no longer love her, true, but how much I loved her.
My voice searched the wind to touch her ear.

Someone else's. She will be someone else's. As she once
belonged to my kisses.
Her voice, her light body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her.
Love is so short and oblivion so long.

Because on nights like this I held her in my arms,
my soul is lost without her.

Although this may be the last pain she causes me,
and this may be the last poem I write for her.”
― Pablo Neruda

“It is not worth the bother of killing yourself, since you always kill yourself too late.”
― Emil Cioran, The Trouble With Being Born

“The adolescents of my generation, greedy for life, forgot in body and soul about their hopes for the future until reality taught them that tomorrow was not what they had dreamed, and they discovered nostalgia.”
― Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Memories of My Melancholy Whores

“No matter what you do this year or in the next hundred, you will be dead forever.”
― Gabriel García Márquez, Memories of My Melancholy Whores

“Sex is the consolation you have when you can’t have love.”
― Gabriel Garcí­a Márquez, Memories of My Melancholy Whores

“Blood circulated through her veins with the fluidity of a song that branched off into the most hidden areas of her body and returned to her heart, purified by love. Before I left at dawn I drew the lines of her hand on a piece of paper and gave it to Diva Sahibí for a reading so I could know her soul.”
― Gabriel García Márquez, Memories of My Melancholy Whores

“She was impossible to resist. She had the eyes of a wildcat, a body as provocative with clothes as without, and luxuriant hair of uproarious gold whose woman's smell made me weep with rage into my pillow.”
― Gabriel García Márquez, Memories of My Melancholy Whores

“I was within and without, simultaneously enchanted and repelled by the inexhaustible variety of life.”
― Fitzgerald F. Scott, The Great Gatsby