House of Day, House of Night Quotes

“Speaking does harm, sows confusion and weakens things that are obvious. Speaking makes me tremble inside. I don't think I have ever said anything really important in my entire life -- there's a lack of words for the most important things anyway. (I must make a list of missing words -- top of it I'll put a verb that means something in between "I sense" and "I see.")”
― Olga Tokarczuk, House of Day, House of Night

“Your memory creates postcard images, but it doesn't really comprehend the world at all. That's why a landscape is so affected by the mood of the person looking at it. In it a person sees his own inner, transitory moments. Wherever he looks, he sees nothing but himself.”
― Olga Tokarczuk, House of Day, House of Night

“Jaka to rozkosz, jaka słodycz życia – siedzieć w chłodnym domu, pić herbatę, pogryzać ciasto i czytać. Przeżuwać długie zdania, smakować ich sens, odkrywać nagle w mgnieniu sens głębszy, zdumiewać się nim i pozwalać sobie zastygać z oczami wklejonymi w prostokąt szyby. Herbata stygnie w delikatnej filiżance; nad jej powierzchnią unosi się koronkowy dymek, który znika w powietrzu zostawiając ledwie uchwytny zapach. Sznureczki liter na białej stronie książki dają schronienie oczom, rozumowi, całemu człowiekowi. Okruszki ciasta wysypują się na serwetę, zęby dzwonią leciutko o porcelanę. W ustach zbiera się ślina, bo mądrość jest apetyczna jak drożdżowe ciasto, ożywiająca jak herbata.”
― Olga Tokarczuk, House of Day, House of Night

“Какъв разкош, каква сладост на живота - да седиш в хладната къща, да пиеш чай, да си похапваш сладкиш и да четеш. Да предъвкваш дългите изречения, да вкусваш смисъла им, да откриваш неочаквано, в един миг, по-дълбок смисъл, да се изумяваш над него и да си позволяваш да застинеш с очи, влепени в правоъгълника на стъклото. Чаят изстива в изисканата чашка; над повърхността и се носи дантелена пара, която изчезва във въздуха, оставяйки едва доловим аромат. Въженцата на буквите върху бялата страница на книгата дават убежище на очите, на разума, на целия човек. Това прави света открит и безопасен. Трохите сладкиш се посипват по салфетката, зъбите лекичко звънят о порцелана. В устата се събира слюнка, защото мъдростта е апетитна като козуначения сладкиш, живителна като чая.”
― Olga Tokarczuk, House of Day, House of Night

“Quite out of the blue a bizarre and compelling idea came into my head today: that we have ended up as human beings through forgetfulness, through lack of attention, and that in reality we are creatures participating in a vast, cosmic battle that has probably been going on since time immemorial and which, for all we know, may never end. All we see of it are glimmers, in blood-red moons, in fires and gales, in frozen leaves that fall in October, in the jittery flight of a butterfly, in the irregular pulse of time that can lengthen a night into infinity or come to a violent stop each day at noon. I am actually an angel or a demon sent into the turmoil of one life on a sort of mission, which is either carrying itself out without my help, or else I have totally forgotten about it. This forgetfulness is part of the war--it's the other side's weapon, and they've attacked me with it so that I'm wounded, invalided out of the game for a while. As a result, I don't know how powerful or how weak I am--I don't know anything about myself because I can't remember anything, and that's why I don't try to look for either weakness or power in myself. It's an extraordinary feeling--to imagine that somewhere deep inside, you are someone completely different from the person you always thought you were. But it didn't make me feel anxious, just relieved, finally free of a kind of weariness that used to permeate my life.”
― Olga Tokarczuk, House of Day, House of Night

“This was how the end must look. No deluge, no rains of fire, no Auschwitz, no comet. This is how the world will look when God has deserted it, whoever he is. Like an abandoned house, everything coated in cosmic dust, muggy and steeped in silence. Everything living will congeal and grow mold in the light that has no pulse and therefore is dead. In this spectral light everything will crumble.”
― Olga Tokarczuk, House of Day, House of Night

“Jak wygląda świat, kiedy życie staje się tęsknotą? Wygląda papierowo, kruszy się w palcach, rozpada. Każdy ruch przygląda się sobie, każda myśl przygląda się sobie, każde uczucie zaczyna się i nie kończy, i w końcu sam przedmiot tęsknoty staje się papierowy i nierzeczywisty. Tylko tęsknienie jest prawdziwe, uzależnia. Być tam, gdzie się nie jest, mieć to, czego się nie posiada, dotykać kogoś, kto nie istnieje. Ten stan ma naturę falującą i sprzeczną w sobie. jest kwintesencją życia i jest przeciwko życiu. Przenika skórę do mięśni i kości, które zaczynają odtąd istnieć boleśnie. Nie boleć. Istnieć boleśnie – to znaczy, że podstawą ich istnienia był ból. Toteż nie ma od takiej tęsknoty ucieczki. Trzeba by uciec poza własne ciało, a nawet poza siebie. Upijać się? Spać całe tygodnie? Zapamiętywać się w aktywności aż do amoku? Modlić się nieustannie?”
― Olga Tokarczuk, House of Day, House of Night

“People are built like houses inside- they have stairwells, spacious halls, vestibules that are always too weakly lit to count the doors into the rooms, row upon row of apartments, damp chambers, slimy, tiled bathrooms with cast-iron baths, steps with handrails taut as veins, artery-like corridors, joint-like landings, passages, guest rooms, draughty chambers into which a sudden current of warm air flows, closets, twists and turns and cubby-holes, and larders full of forgotten supplies.”
― Olga Tokarczuk, House of Day, House of Night

“jeżeli ktoś zaczyna zdanie od słowa "zawsze", to znaczy, ze stracił kontakt ze światem, i że mówi o sobie”
― Olga Tokarczuk, House of Day, House of Night

“Който е виждал някога планината през късна есен, когато по дърветата още висят последните измръзнали листа, покрити с глазурата на сланите; когато земята е по-топла от небето и бавно умира под дантелите на първите снегове; когато изпод изсъхналите треви започват да се оголват нейните каменни кости; когато от размитите краища на хоризонта започва да се просмуква тъмнина; когато звуците изведнъж стават остри и висят в мразовития въздух като ножове - той е изпитал смъртта на света. Но аз бих казал, че светът умира постоянно, ден след ден, макар че по някакви съображения едва късната есен разбулва цялата тайна на тази смърт. И единственото живо място, което се противи на това разпадане, е чевешкото тяло, но не цялото - само една малка негова част, туптяща под сърцето, в самия център, в средата на гърдите, където невидим за очите пулсира изворът на всякакъв живот.”
― Olga Tokarczuk, House of Day, House of Night

“He saw a valley, over which hung a low, orange sky. All the lines of this world were indistinct and the shadows were blurred, cast by some alien light. In the valley there were no houses, no traces of humanity, not a single clump of nettles or a wild currant bush was growing. There was no stream, though the place where one used to be was overgrown with thick, hard, tawny grass, like a scar. There was no day in this world, and no night either. The orange sky kept shining all the time - neither warm nor cold, motionless and indifferent. The hill was still covered in forest, but when he looked at it closely he could see that it was dead; at some point it had hardened and turned to stone. Pinecones hung on the spruce trees, and their branches were still covered in ashen needles, because there was no wind to scatter them. He had a terrible foreboding that if an sort of movement were to occur in this landscape the forest would come crashing down and turn to dust.”
― Olga Tokarczuk, House of Day, House of Night

“Każda taka rozmowa wyczerpywała się sama i siedziałyśmy obok siebie na schodkach jej domu albo na moim tarasie, na metalowych krzesłach, które od zeszłorocznych deszczy zaczęły rdzewieć. Milczenie, jakie się między nami zasiało, milczenie-samosiejka rozrastało się na wszystkie strony, łapczywie zabierając nam przestrzeń. Nie było już czym oddychać. A im dłużej milczałyśmy, tym mniej możliwe stawało się wypowiedzenie jakiegokolwiek słowa, tym odleglejsze i mniej ważne wydawały się wszelkie możliwe tematy.

Takie milczenie bywało aksamitne, ciepłe jak styropian, było miłe w dotyku i suche, było jedwabne. Ale czasem bałam się, że Marta może nie czuć tego co ja i zamachnie się na tę naszą ciszę jakimś nieopatrznym „No tak…” albo „Tak to jest…”, albo nawet czystym, niewinnym westchnieniem. I ten strach zaczynał mi psuć całą przyjemność z milczenia, bo stawałam się mimowolnie jego strażnikiem, a więc i jego więźniem, i naprężałam się gdzieś w środku, jeżyłam na oczekiwany z niepokojem moment, że coś gładko cudownego, coś niewymuszenie oczywistego stanie się nieznośne i kiedyś się wreszcie skończy. I cóż sobie wtedy powiemy, Marto?

Ale Marta okazywała się zawsze mądrzejsza ode mnie. Wstawała bezszelestnie i niezauważalnie odchodziła do swojego rabarbaru, do peruk trzymanych w tekturowych pudełkach, a nasza wspólnie wypielęgnowana roślina, nasza wspólna cisza rozciągała się w ślad za nią i było jej jeszcze więcej niż przedtem, jeszcze potężniej rosła. Wtedy zostawałam w niej sama, dwuwymiarowa, bez właściwości, w półistnieniu, które mogło być tylko rozwleczonym w czasie olśnieniem.”
― Olga Tokarczuk, House of Day, House of Night

“– Wcale nie trzeba wychodzić z domu, żeby poznać świat – powiedziała nagle Marta, gdy obierałyśmy groszek na schodach przed jej domem.

Zapytałam, jak. Może myślała o czytaniu książek, oglądaniu wiadomości, słuchaniu Radia Nowa Ruda, włóczeniu się po Internecie, przeglądaniu gazet, chodzeniu na plotki do sklepu. Ale Marta miała na myśli bezowocność podróży.

W podróżach trzeba zajmować się sobą, żeby dać sobie radę, patrzeć na siebie i na to, jak pasuje się do świata. Jest się skupionym na sobie, myśli się o sobie, sobą opiekuje. W podróżach zawsze w końcu natyka się na siebie, jakby się samemu było ich celem. We własnym domu po prostu się jest, nie trzeba z niczym walczyć ani niczego zdobywać. Nie trzeba pilnować połączeń kolejowych, rozkładów jazdy, nie trzeba zachwytów i rozczarowań. Można siebie samego zawiesić na kołku, a wtedy widzi się najwięcej.”
― Olga Tokarczuk, House of Day, House of Night

“Z jakichś względów ludzie nie potrafią wyobrażać sobie końców, nie tylko końców rzeczy wielkich, ale nawet najmniejszych. Może samo wyobrażanie sobie czegokolwiek wyczerpuje jakoś rzeczywistość; może ona nie chce być wyobrażana w głowach ludzi, może chce być wolna, jak zbuntowany nastolatek, i to właśnie dlatego zawsze jest inaczej, niż można to było sobie wyobrazić.”
― Olga Tokarczuk, House of Day, House of Night

“(...) świat się skończył, choć zatrzymał pozory trwania. Tak wygląda prawdziwy koniec.”
― Olga Tokarczuk, House of Day, House of Night

“Kiedy sny powtarzają zdarzenia z przeszłości, kiedy ją międlą, zmieniają w obrazy, przesypują przez sita znaczeń, zaczyna mi się wydawać, że przeszłość tak samo jak przyszłość na zawsze pozostanie nieodgadniona i nieznana. To, że coś przeżyłam, wcale nie znaczy, że poznałam tego znaczenie. Dlatego tak samo boję się o przeszłość, jak i o przyszłość. Niechby się okazało, że coś, co znałam i uważałam do tej pory za stałe i pewne, mogło się dziać z zupełnie innej przyczyny i w sposób, jakiego nie podejrzewałam. Że prowadziło mnie ku czemu innemu, a ja nie odkryłam kierunku, że byłam ślepa, że spałam. Co pocznę ze swoim teraz?”
― Olga Tokarczuk, House of Day, House of Night

“He saw it. Not in front, or behind him, just somewhere out in the darkness. It was huge and powerful. The whiteness of its fur gleamed in the light of the snow.
'Wolf, in the name of the Polish border I beg you to spare my life,' he said into the darkness.
The wolf stopped behind him, wondering.”
― Olga Tokarczuk, House of Day, House of Night

“Марта казваше, че косъмът, който расте, събира мислите на човека. Акумулира ги в себе си под формата на неопределени частици. Така че, ако човек иска да забрави нещо, да го промени и да започне отначало, трябва да отреже косата си и да я закопае в земята.”
― Olga Tokarczuk, House of Day, House of Night

“Колко болезнено е да се обичан за нищо, тоест, заради това, че те има. Какво безпокойство носи такава любов. Как мислите е оплитат от недоверие, а сърцето набъбва от ускорените удари. Как светът се отдръпва и губи осезаемостта си. Криша изведнъж се почуствала самотна.”
― Olga Tokarczuk, House of Day, House of Night

“When you’re traveling you have to take care of yourself in order to get by”
― Olga Tokarczuk, House of Day, House of Night

“Readers are advised that some of the recipes in this book should carry the health warning”
― Olga Tokarczuk, House of Day, House of Night

“Only succumb to those adventures that you think worthwhile.”
― Olga Tokarczuk, House of Day, House of Night

“For some reason people are unable to imagine endings, the ends not only of momentous events, but even of the most minor ones. Perhaps, the very effort of imagining something has the effect of exhausting reality; perhaps it doesn't want to be imagined, maybe it wants to be free, like a rebellious teenager, and that's why it's always different from how we might imagine it.”
― Olga Tokarczuk, House of Day, House of Night

“If you find your place you'll be immortal.”
― Olga Tokarczuk, House of Day, House of Night

“I told Marta that each of us has two homes — one actual home with a fixed location in time and space, and a second that is infinite, with no address and no chance of being immortalized in architectural plans — and that we live in both of them simultaneously.”
― Olga Tokarczuk, House of Day, House of Night

“The person telling the story is always alive, immortal in a way.”
― Olga Tokarczuk, House of Day, House of Night

“The person telling the story is always alive, immortal in a way”
― Olga Tokarczuk, House of Day, House of Night

“Sacred is decay, desirous is decline—”
― Olga Tokarczuk, House of Day, House of Night

“Then I realized that it's not that I want to be old — it's not a particular age I'm longing for, but a certain way of life, one that's reserved for old age, perhaps. It involves not taking action, but if you do, doing it slowly, as if it's not the result of the action that matters, but the actual movement. It means watching the ebb and flow of time, but no longer having the courage to go with the tide, or against it. It means ignoring time, as if it were just a naive advertisement for something else that's truly desirable, and doing nothing, just counting the strokes of the living-room clock, the pit-a-pat of pigeon's feet on the windowsill, and the beats of your heart— and the immediately forgetting them all. It means not longing or thirsting for anything—”
― Olga Tokarczuk, House of Day, House of Night

“What's the point of population censuses, if people keep changing and turning into someone else? Why does an adult bear the same first name as when he was a child? Why does a once loved woman still have her husband's surname when he's betrayed and abandoned her? Why do men go on bearing the same name when they come back from war, or why does a boy beaten by his father keep the same idiotic name when he starts to beat his own children?”
― Olga Tokarczuk, House of Day, House of Night