Archive for August 2011

Zu schüchtern

Warum hatte ich keine Angst gehabt? Ich begriff, dass meine Angst zu schüchtern war, sie musste allein sein, um zum Vorschein zu kommen. Hier aber waren die Augen der Jungen unten und die des Mädchens oben. Meine Angst schämte sich hervorzukommen. Sie würde sich später rächen, abends im Bett, im Dunkeln, wenn die Gespenster in der Leere raschelten.

Erri de Luca, Der Tag vor dem Glück

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The same sudden way

We don’t always have a choice how we get to know one another. Sometimes, people fall into our lives cleanly – as if out of the sky, or as if there were a direct flight from Heaven to Earth – the same sudden way we lose people, who once seemed they would always be part of our lives.

John Irving, Last Night In Twisted River

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Recursive Rant

Yet, what bothered the novelist more was that his novels had been trivialized. Danny Angel’s fiction had been ransacked for every conceivably autobiographical scrap; his novels had been dissected and overanalyzed for whatever could be construed as the virtual memoirs hidden inside them. […]

In the media, real life was more important than fiction; those elements of a novel that were, at least, based on personal experience were of more interest to the general public than those pieces of the novel-writing process that were „merely“ made up. In any work of fiction, weren’t those things that had really happened to the writer — or, perhaps, to someone the writer had intimately known — more authentic, more verifiably true, than anything that anyone could imagine? (This was a common belief, even though a fiction writer’s job was imagining, truly, a whole story — as Danny Angel had subversively said, whenever he was given the opportunity to defend the fiction in fiction writing — because real-life stories were never whole, never complete in the ways novels could be.)

John Irving, Last Night In Twisted River

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