Satantango Quotes

Rate this book
Clear rating
Satantango Satantango by László Krasznahorkai
3,549 ratings, 4.10 average rating, 525 reviews
Open Preview
Satantango Quotes Showing 1-27 of 27
“Quietly, continually, the rain fell and the inconsolable wind that died then was forever resurrected ruffled the still surfaces of puddles so lightly it failed to disturb the delicate dead skin that had covered them during the night so that instead of recovering the previous day's tired glitter they increasingly and remorselessly absorbed the light that swam slowly out of the east.”
László Krasznahorkai, Satantango
“Get it into your thick head that jokes are just like life. Things that begin badly, end badly. Everything's fine in the middle, it's the end you need to worry about.”
László Krasznahorkai, Satantango
“Irimiás: God is not made manifest in language, you dope. He's not manifest in anything. He doesn't exist... God was a mistake. I've long understood there is zero difference between me and a bug, or a bug and a river, or a river and a voice shouting above it. There's no sense or meaning in anything. It's nothing but a network of dependency under enormous fluctuating pressures. It's only our imaginations, not our senses, that continually confront us with failure and the false belief that we can raise ourselves by our own bootstraps from the miserable pulp of delay. There's no escaping that, stupid.”
László Krasznahorkai, Satantango
“However apparently insignificant the event, whether it be the ring of tobacco ash surrounding the table, the direction from which the wild geese first appeared, or a series of seemingly meaningless human movements, he couldn’t afford to take his eyes off it and must note it all down, since only by doing so could he hope not to vanish one day and fall a silent captive to the infernal arrangement whereby the world decomposes but is at the same time constantly in the process of self-construction.”
László Krasznahorkai, Satantango
“He gazed sadly at the threatening sky, at the burned-out remnants of a locust-plagued summer, and suddenly saw on the twig of an acacia, as in a vision, the progress of spring, summer, fall and winter, as if the whole of time were a frivolous interlude in the much greater spaces of eternity, a brilliant conjuring trick to produce something apparently orderly out of chaos, to establish a vantage point from which chance might begin to look like necessity . . . and he saw himself nailed to the cross of his own cradle and coffin, painfully trying to tear his body away, only, eventually, to deliver himself — utterly naked, without identifying mark, stripped down to essentials — into the care of the people whose duty it was to wash the corpses, people obeying an order snapped out in the dry air against a background loud with torturers and flayers of skin, where he was obliged to regard the human condition without a trace of pity, without a single possibility of any way back to life, because by then he would know for certain that all his life he had been playing with cheaters who had marked the cards and who would, in the end, strip him even of his last means of defense, of that hope of someday finding his way back home.”
László Krasznahorkai, Satantango
“In the tense silence the continual buzzing of the horseflies was the only audible sound, that and the constant rain beating down in the distance, and, uniting the two, the ever more frequent scritch-scratch of the bent acacia trees outside, and the strange nightshift work of the bugs in the table legs and in various parts of the counter whose irregular pulse measured out the small parcels of time, apportioning the narrow space into which a word, a sentence or a movement might perfectly fit. 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 don't hang together. So with the door left open as if forever, with the lock that will never open. There is a chasm, a crevice.”
László Krasznahorkai, Satantango
“ظلت جالسة هناك والدموع تنبع من عينيها وجسدها منهك، صار وزن العالم كله ثقيلًا فوق كتفيها”
László Krasznahorkai, Satantango
“Bough of a tree to the rain . . .” he turns the phrase over in his mouth as if it were fine wine, trying to guess its vintage, realizing somewhat indifferently that it is beyond him.”
László Krasznahorkai, Satantango
“Irimiás scrapes the mud off his lead-heavy shoes, clears his throat, cautiously opens the door, and the rain begins again, while to the east, swift as memory, the sky brightens, scarlet and pale blue and leans against the undulating horizon, to be followed by the sun, like a beggar daily panting up to his spot on the temple steps, full of heartbreak and misery, ready to establish the world of shadows, to separate the trees one from the other, to raise, out of the freezing, confusing homogeneity of night in which they seem to have been trapped like flies in a web, a clearly defined earth and sky with distinct animals and men, the darkness still in flight at the edge of things, somewhere on the far side on the western horizon, where its countless terrors vanish one by one like a desperate, confused, defeated army.”
László Krasznahorkai, Satantango
“By now the window of the bar is visible, glowing ahead of them, but there is no sound, not a single word to be heard, as if the place were deserted, not a soul … but now, someone is playing the harmonica … Irimias scrapes the mud off his lead-heavy shoes, clears his throat, cautiously opens the door, and the rain begins again, while to the east, swift as memory, the sky brightens, scarlet and pale blue and leans against the undulating horizon, to be followed by the sun, like a beggar daily panting up to this spot on the temple steps, full of heartbreak and misery, ready to establish the world of shadows, to separate the trees from one another, to raise, out of the freezing, confusing homogeneity of night in which they seem to have been trapped like flies in a web, a clearly defined earth and sky with distinct animals and men, the darkness still in flight at the edge of things, somewhere on the far side on the western horizon, where its countless terrors vanish one by one like a desperate, confused, defeated army.”
László Krasznahorkai, Satantango
“Se gandi iar la cotet si la porci, intrucat simti ca la fel cum cei care nu banuiesc ca din providenta ce pluteste deasupra zilelor noastre o sa ramana doar lumina de pe cutitul cu care se injunghie porcul, tot asa nici noi nu banuim nimic, si nici n-o sa aflam vreodata ceva despre acest infricosator adio.”
László Krasznahorkai, Satantango
“Isi marturisi ca viata lui fara consistenta, care numara 52 de ani, care alunecase pe langa evenimente, e tot atat de neinsemnata in lupta indarjita a marilor destine, a marilor cariere, pe cat de imperceptibil e fumul unei tigari in in vagonul unui tren aflat in flacari.”
László Krasznahorkai, Satantango
“For minutes on end he could not tell whether he was really hearing howls of pain, or whether it was simply that his years of long, exhausting work had rendered him incapable of distinguishing between the general noise and ancient prehistoric screams that were somehow preserved in time ('the evidence of suffering does not disappear without a trace,' he hopefully remarked) and now were being raised by the rain, like dust.”
László Krasznahorkai, Satantango
“The stench of sewers mixed with mud, the smell of the odd crack of lightning, wind tugging at tiles, power lines, empty nests; the stifling heat behind the low ill-fitting windows... impatient, annoyed half-words of lovers embracing... demanding wails of babies, their cries sliding off into the tin-smell of dusk; streets pliable, parks soaked to their roots lying obedient to the rain, bare oaks, half-broken dry flowers, scorched grass all prostrate, humbled by the storm, sacrifices strewn at the executioner's feet.”
László Krasznahorkai, Satantango
“So, doing nothing, he simply remained on the alert, careful to preserve his failing memory against the decay that consumed everything around him, much as he had done from the moment that he — once the closing of the estate had been announced and he personally had decided to stay behind and survive on what remained until “the decision to reverse the closure should be taken” — had gone up to the mill with the elder Horgos girl to observe the terrible racket of the abandonment of the place, with everyone rushing round and shouting, the trucks in the distance like refugees fleeing the scene, when it seemed to him that the mill’s death-sentence had brought the whole estate to a condition of near collapse, and from that day on he felt too weak to halt by himself the triumphal progress of the wrecking process, however he might try, there being nothing he could do in the face of the power that ruined houses, walls, trees and fields, the birds that dived from their high stations, the beasts that scurried forth, and all human bodies, desires and hopes, knowing he wouldn’t, in any case, have the strength, however he tried, to resist this treacherous assault on humanity; and, knowing this, he understood, just in time, that the best he could do was to use his memory to fend off the sinister, underhanded process of decay, trusting in the fact that since all that mason might build, carpenter might construct, woman might stitch, indeed all that men and women had brought forth with bitter tears was bound to turn to an undifferentiated, runny, underground, mysteriously ordained mush, his memory would remain lively and clear, right until his organs surrendered and “conformed to the contract whereby their business affairs were wound up,” that is to say until his bones and flesh fell prey to the vultures hovering over death and decay.”
László Krasznahorkai, Satantango
“Imaginile i se perindau in tacere, iar si iar, prin fata ochilor, intr-o succesiune tot mai rigida, parca tot ce considera omul ca-i important sa fie pastrat ar avea o ordine independenta si indisolubila, iar in timp ce memoria lucreaza sa confere certitudine si existenta prezentul atat de vremelnic, validand firele regulii vii in tesatura libera a evenimentelor , il obliga pe om ca podul peste haul ce-l desparte de propria viata sa nu-l construiasca din libertate, ci din propriile satisfactii spasmodice.”
László Krasznahorkai, Satantango
“نحن غارقون في الخراء يا صديقي، ولا نستطيع أن نفعل شيئًا في هذا الشأن إلى حين، علينا البقاء معهم”
László Krasznahorkai, Satantango
“Constată, cu o presimțire nefastă, că n-are nici cel mai mic habar ce planuri are-n cap Irimias, la fel cum rămase și pentru el într-o ceață totală rostul părăsirii conacului cu o grabă atât de mare. Pentru o fracțiune de secundă își aminti acea imagine înspăimântătoare de care nu putea scăpa nicicum în ultimii ani: din nou se văzu pe sine, îmbrăcat în paltonu-i ponosit, mergând istovit pe drumul pietruit, sprijinit în baston, flămând și amărât până peste poate, în urma lui, încetul cu-ncetul colonia dispare în ceață, în fața lui, orizontul se vede din ce în ce mai incert... Iar acum, toropit din cauza duduitului motorului, era nevoit să recunoască faptul că presimțirea nu l-a înșelat: stă ghemuit, fără un ban în buzunar, flămând, extenuat și rănit, pe platforma unui camion apărut ca din senin și aleargă pe un drum ce duce cine știe unde, gonește în plin necunoscut, iar dacă vor ajunge la o bifurcație nici măcar nu va avea posibilitatea să decidă în ce direcție s-o pornească, întrucât nu exista altă variantă în afară de a se resemna neputincios că direcția vieții lui este stabilită de voința unei vechi rable, care abia se târăște, în timp ce zdrăngăne, zornăie, tușește. „Se pare că nu există scăpare, reflectă el blazat. Fie așa, fie altfel... oricum sunt un om pierdut. Mâine mă trezesc într-o cameră străină, și n-am să știu ce mă așteaptă, la fel cum n-aș fi știut nici în cazul în care aș fi pornit singur la drum... O să-mi pun boarfele vechi pe masă și pe prici, dacă o să am așa ceva, iar pe înserate mă pot uita în voie cum dispare lumina din fereastră...”
László Krasznahorkai, Satantango
“لا تختفي علائم المعاناة من غير أثر”
László Krasznahorkai, Satantango
“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.”
László Krasznahorkai, Satantango
“كانت روحه محطمة لكنها ظلت ترعى أملًا غامضًا”
László Krasznahorkai, Satantango
“Orele treceau greu, noroc ca era de mult stricat ceasul, nu se auzea ticaitul monoton care sa le aminteasca de trecerea anevoioasa a timpului.”
László Krasznahorkai, Satantango
“What is behind me still remains ahead of me.”
László Krasznahorkai, Satantango
“A fost o greseala. Pentru ca adineauri am inteles ca intre mine si o insecta, intre o insecta si un rau, intre un rau si un strigat, care se arcuieste peste acesta, nu este nici o deosebire. Totul functioneaza gol si fara noima sub presiunea dependentei si a unui stravechi balans salbatic, astfel ca numai imaginatia, nicidecum esecul etern al simturilor, ne ispiteste neincetat cu credinta, ca sa putem iesi din viziunile mizeriei.”
László Krasznahorkai, Satantango
“Privi cu tristete cerul sinistru, resturile parjolite ale verii invadate de lacuste, si avu dintr-odata revelatia felului in care trece primavara, vara, toamna si iarna peste aceleasi crengi uscate ale salcamilor, simtind cum timpul, un mascarici in sfera nemiscata a eternitatii, ademenind vicioasele linii satanice peste hartoapele haosului si creand inaltimea, trece nebunia drept necesitate... si se vazu pe sine chinuindu-se intr-o ultima crispare pe crucea de lemn a leaganului si a sicriului, pentru ca-n final, despuiat de tot si de toate sa ajunga, in ranjetul unei sentinte ce pocneste uscat si al harnicilor jupuitori de piei, pe mana spalatorilor de morti, unde apoi va trebui sa vada, intr-un mod necrutator, masura lucrurilor umane, fara ca macar o singura poteca sa-l conduca inapoi, pentru ca atunci o sa-i fie clar deja si faptul ca intrase intr-o partida cu jucatori necinstiti, rezultatul fiind decis de mult, in finalul careia i se va fura si ultima arma, speranta ca odata ajunge si el acasa.”
László Krasznahorkai, Satantango
“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.”
László Krasznahorkai, Satantango
“De o parte si de alta a soselei, pe portiunea acoperita cu palcuri mohorate de padure pana la linia orizontului, totul este plin cu noroi, iar pentru ca noaptea care se pogoara dizolva consistenta, absoarbe culoarea, transforma incremenirea in plutire, pietrificand tot ce misca, soseaua pare o nava ce stationeaza, leganandu-se misterios in mijlocul unui ocean de mal, mare cat o lume intreaga.”
László Krasznahorkai, Satantango