The only explanation I can suggest is that for Franz, love was not an extension of public life but its antithesis. It meant a longing to put himself in the mercy of his partner. He who gives himself up his weapons as well. And deprived in advance of defense against a possible blow, he cannot help wondering when the blow will fall. That is why I can say that for Franz, love meant the constant expectation of a blow.
Love is by definition an unmerited gift; being loved without meriting it is the very proof of real love.
Jetzt hatte sie begriffen! Wer sich erinnern will, darf nicht an einem Ort verweilen und warten, bis die Erinnerungen von selbst kommen! Die Erinnerungen haben sich in alle Himmelsrichtungen verstreut, und man muss reisen, wenn man sie wiederfinden und aus ihren Schlupfwinkeln holen will!
It’s a great consolation to think that when we’ve long been in the grave our noses will still be strolling the earth.
Only cactuses had perennial appeal. And cactuses were of no interest to her.
The only person who had ever really interrogated her was her husband, and that was because love is a constant interrogation.
Not until later did she understand that the word “woman” on which he had placed such uncommon emphasis, did not, in his eyes, signify one of the two human sexes; it represented a value. Not every woman was worthy of being called a woman.
Love is the glorification of the present.
Men grow old, the end draws near, each moment becomes more and more valuable, and there is no time to waste over recollections.
Alas, I found no guarantee I would have acted any better; but how has that affected my relationship with others? The consciousness of my own baseness has done nothing to reconcile me to the baseness of others. Nothing is more repugnant to me than brotherly feelings grounded in the common baseness people see in one another. I have no desire for that slimy brotherhood.
His kindness tore at her heartstrings...
The humble histories of hearts cannot be brushed aside forever by the great events of nations.
He has sent her back to the world she tried to escape...
It is a tragicomic fact that our proper upbringing has become an ally of the secret police. We do not know how to lie.
But is not an event in fact more significant and noteworthy the greater the number of fortuities necessary to bring it about? Chance and chance alone has a message for us. Everything that occurs out of necessity, everything expected, repeated day in and day out, is mute. Only chance can speak to us. We read its message much as gypsies read the images made by coffee grounds at the bottom of a cup.
We live in two different dimensions, you and I.
The goals we pursue are always veiled... The thing that gives us our every move its meaning is always unknown to us.
The more vast the amount of time we’ve left behind us, the more irresistible is the voice calling us to return to it. This pronouncement seems to state the obvious and yet it is false. Men grow old, the end grows near, each moment becomes more and more valuable and there is no time to waste on recollection. It’s important to understand the mathematical paradox in nostalgia, that it is most powerful in early youth, when the volume of life that has passed is quite small.
Let us suppose that such is the case, that somewhere in the world each of us has a partner who once formed part of our body. Tomas’s other part is the young woman he dreamed about. The trouble is, man does not find the other part of himself. Instead, he is sent a Tereza in a bulrush basket. But what happens if he nevertheless later meets the one who was meant for him, the other part of himself? Whom is he to prefer? The woman from the bulrush basket or the woman from Plato’s myth?
Holding her tightly in his arms and feeling her body tremble, he thought he could not endure his love.