MihaElla > Recent Status Updates

Ce vrea face sufletul omului… E de-ajuns sufletul sa fie mare

Spune, Noemi, te ascult. Ai incredere in mine, sunt cretan.

Ce-nseamna cretan?

Om cald, care iubeste viata si nu se teme de moarte. Spune.

In clipa cand treceati, i-a spus, m-am gandit asa: "Daca vreau, va opresc si devenim prieteni; daca nu vreau, va las sa va vedeti de drum." Si-am hotarat ca vreau. Si a ras.

Ori sunteti nebun, i-a raspuns fata privindu-l nelinistita, ori un om exceptional. Dar n-am timp...

[...]

Vino, i-a spus din nou Kosmas.

Unde?

Nicaieri.

Unde? intreba din nou, ca un copilas cuprins de necaz.

"Cat o iubesc pe femeia asta, nu poate fi cuprins in cuvinte, se gandi. [...] Ce Soarta a luat-o de mana, in amurgul acela la Ierusalim, si mi-a scos-o in cale?"

A scuturat din cap. A zambit.

"Nu exista soarta, isi zice, eu , in acel amurg am prins-o de mana, eu , si nimeni altul!"

Cat timp traieste si se misca in mine, n-a murit, cat timp traiesc si ma gandesc, nu va muri. Ceilalti il vor uita, de mine atarna viata lui. Ma tine si il tin…

- Asculta, fata draga, ce-ai zice tu daca ne-am desparti?

[…]

I-am scris ca-i las absolut tot ce e in casa, de la obiecte de pret la carti…de la lucruri personale, la amintiri. Adica tot trecutul.

Dupa-masa dorm vreo doua ceasuri si cand ma destept imi aduc aminte de scrisori. Mama imi spune ca acasa sunt toti bine si:

“Stefane, mama, roaga-te lui Dumnezeu in fiecare seara, ca el ne e singura nadejde…si vezi, fii cuminte…fa si tu cum fac altii”

Biata mama, cum crede ea ca “fac altii”?

-Bine,dar acasa nu va face nicio impresie?
-Cred si eu.Sub unghiul speciei nu esti interesant decat daca esti ucis cu alti zece mii o data.Daca un scriitor va descrie numai lupte de patrule, cred si eu ca nu i se va vinde cartea.
Popescu se intoarce usor spre dreapta,ca si cand s-ar feri de ceva nevazut si pe urma ridica umarul.
-Daca-i prost! N-are decat sa puie stanjeni de cadavre,uragane de obuze, rauri de sange.

Am cerut un dictionar medical strain si, la pagina stiuta, am citit, subliniind cu vocea:
“IMBECILITATE” (fig. 1100). – Imbecilul e un tip degenerat, caracterizat prin anomalii fizice, dar mai ales prin tulburari intelectuale si morale. Inteligenta lui e marginita, totusi are calitatei de memorie, de imitatie si oarecare vivacitate de spirit. Mai ales simtul moral ii e atins…

Nu intelegea! Poate ca nu stia bine romaneste?

Gandeste-te!“

Totusi! Totusi, ce?

Astfel, ajunsesem sa gandesc despre ea ce era mai rau, cu atat mai mult forta mea morala fusese surpata. Dar nu era numai atat. Peste asta se putea trece. Bucuria singuratatii in care gandirea ta ramane activa si jubilatoare, putea sa-ti ajunga, ramaneai fiu al soarelui si a tot ce exista. Dar fusesem adanc implicat…

Ce privire asteptam? Una singura, in care ametim o clipa, apoi putem sa ne ignoram o vreme, ca sa nu stingherim pe nimeni cu sentimentele noastre egoiste.

Cum e aceasta privire? E o marturisire: te iubesc, nu mai lunga si nici mai insistenta decat ar trebui ca sa se rosteasca aceste cuvinte.

…in timp ce bucuresteanul arata o figura blazata si te trimite cu un dispret suveran la origine, fara sa-ti poarte pica.

Dar e firesc!!! Cine suntem noi? Cu ce drept venim unul spre altul? …Trebuie sa aflam totul, dar totul…

Ei da, e un pahar care trebuie baut, il bei, te incovoi de durere, pe urma te redresezi.

Trebuie sa iesi intr-un fel din istoria asta. Suferinta, dupa Dostoievski, e singurul remediu, dupa mine suferinta e o criza din care trebuie sa iesi cat mai rapid, adancimile ei ne ratacesc spiritul. Ce e de fapt suferinta? O depresiune. Ce rost are sa zaci in ea si, mai rau, sa te acomodezi cu ea? Dostoievski se sperie la gandul ca omul, redevenind liber, n-o sa stie ce sa faca cu libertatea. E un gand pur rusesc..

Ceva ma infiora, dar nu stiam ce. Poate faptul ca ma simteam atat de strain de aceasta femeie cu care ma plimbam, trecatoarea care ma facuse sa tresar si pentru care apoi simtisem o atractie turbure si o invidie grea ca astfel de femei le intalnesc altii si nu eu? Ea era a lui Petrica si imi dadeam seama ca a lui Petrica va ramane. Petrica sufera mult, spusese ea. Era deci in gandul ei...

“Trebuie iertata, fiindca a iubit mult”, asa a spus Cristos, am continuat citand o replica din Dostoievski.

“Nu despre o astfel de iubire vorbeste Cristos”, mi-a raspuns atunci tata exact ca in Dostoievski, pe care nu-l citise.

Si eu am strigat: “Ba da, si despre o astfel de iubire.”

“Cristos nu e o pavaza pentru toti dezaxatii, a strigat atunci si tata. Ai sa ajungi un dezaxat, o sa vezi…”

Trust me, he says, which in itself has never been a talisman, carries no guarantee.
But I snatch at it, this offer. It’s all I’m left with.
[…]
And so I step up, into the darkness within, or else the light.

The trouble is that I can't be, with him, any different from the way I usually am with him. Usually I'm inert. Surely there must be something here for us, other than this futility and bathos.
Fake it, I scream at myself inside my head. You must remember how. Let's get this over with or you'll be here all night. Bestir yourself. Move your flesh around, breathe audibly. It's the least you can do.

Now, tell me. You're an intelligent person, I like to hear what you think. What did we overlook?
Love, I said.
Love? said the Commander. What kind of love?
Falling in love, I said.
The Commander looked at me with his candid boy's eyes. Oh yes, he said. I've read the magazines, that's what they were pushing, wasn't it? But look at the stats, my dear. Was it really worth it, falling in love ?

I like to know what you think,his voice says,from behind me
I don't think a lot,I say lightly. What he wants is intimacy, but I can't give him that.
There's hardly any point in my thinking, is there? I say.What I think doesn't matter.
Which is the only reason he can tell me things.
Come now, he says, pressing a little with his hands.I'm interested in your opinion. You're intelligent enough, you must have an opinion

That night,after I'd lost my job,Luke wanted me to make love.Why didn't I want to?Desperation alone should have driven me.But I still felt numbed.I could hardly even feel his hands on me
What's the matter? he said.
I don't know,I said.
We still have...he said.But he didn't go on to say what we still had.It occurred to me that he shouldn't be saying we since nothing that I knew of had been taken away from him

Is that how we lived then? But we lived as usual. Everyone does, most of the time. Whatever is going on is as usual. Even this is as usual, now.
We lived, as usual, by ignoring. Ignoring isn't the same as ignorance, you have to work at it.
[...]
We were the people who were not in the papers. We lived in the blank white spaces at the edges of print. It gave us more freedom.
We lived in the gaps between the stories.

A bed.Single,mattress medium-hard,covered with a flocked white spread.Nothing takes place in the bed but sleep,or no sleep.I try not to think too much.Like other things now,thought must be rationed.There's a lot that doesn't bear thinking about.Thinking can hurt your chances,& I intend to last [...]
I am alive,I live,I breathe,I put my hand out,unfolded,into the sunlight. Where I am is not a prison but a privilege..

Who knows you?… A man is like a novel: until the very last page you don’t know how it will end. Otherwise it wouldn’t even be worth reading…

How can I tell you what that ancient, absurd, wonderful rite, when her lips touch mine, does to me? What formula can I use to express this whirlwind that sweeps everything out of my soul except her? Yes, yes, my soul — laugh if you want to.

Sweet, sharp, white teeth; a smile. In the open bowl of the armchair she's like a bee: there's a sting in her, and there's honey.
Yes, obligations...[...]
I'm silent. I wear a rapturous (and probably stupid) smile, I look into her pupils, darting from the one to the other, and in each of them I see myself: tiny, a millimetre in size, I'm confused in those tiny, iridescent dungeons. And then again--bees--lips,

You have an abnormal, sickly look, my dear— because abnormality and sickness are one and the same. You’re destroying yourself, and no one will tell you so— no one.

‘I think I ought to make up my mind…for your sake…No, I implore you: don’t hurry me, I must think about it some more…’

I wasn’t hurrying her. Even though I understood that I ought to be happy, and that there’s no greater honour than being the one to crown somebody’s twilight years.