Цитаты из книги G

...death when it arrives is always a mounting surprise which surprises itself to the point at which all reference—and therefore all self-distinction—disappears.

The eating of a cherry in no way prepares you for its stone.

It is only now that I understand an incident in G.'s childhood and a prophecy which were mysterious to me when I wrote them...

You would always be welcome, she added with a smile that was too eager to be happy.

Have you seen the Boche from the air? They look like kangaroos. Why do you say that? To surprise you. I hate them. By next spring we must take Berlin.

The wife so values the time still left her that she is desperate to fill it with new experience.

The widow so despises the time still left her that she is certain that no true experience can enter it.

Both are deceived.

She had a face which might be considered stupid. It was the face of a person, slow to go beyond the immediate, who had no particular wish or talent for abandoning herself to flights of fantasy or of deep emotion. At any moment her face declared: WHAT IS HAPPENING IS HAPPENING TO ME, TO ME, TO ME.

...and you know nothing about me. Nothing? I know all that I have written about you.

To morality there are no mysteries. That is why there are no moral facts, only moral judgements.

She wanted to be able to look back at this moment of genuine renunciation because she considered it a necessary one. But she did not feel compelled to answer for the consequences, expected or unexpected, that might follow from that moment. They might be beyond her control and she recognized this with modesty, with hope and with misgivings.

It is a look which declares itself to be itself; it is like no other look. If it is comparable with anything, it is comparable with the colour of a flower. It is like heliotrope declaring itself blue. In company such looks are quickly extinguished for they encourage neither discourse nor exchange. They constitute social absence.

When you laugh, you laugh crazily (panting in momentary relief) at the person you might have been, and of whom the joke briefly reminded you.

You cannot threaten me. Your existence reconciles me to the idea of my own death.

Where do you live? At your fingertips? In your heart? At the bottom of your dreams? Across your shoulders?

He was offering her the possibility of being what she pretended to be.

The facts of her physical being are the events of the world, the space in which she moves is the space of the universe, not because I am unmindful of everything except her, but because I am prepared to risk all that is not her for the sake of all that she is.

To fuck is like naming what has happened in the only language adequate to expressing it. (Only when nothing has happened is it possible to separate sex from love.)