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  1. #41
    madmoiselle Maska e angeldust
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    Citim Postuar m par nga diikush
    Ato letrat e "Joice per Noren" si shume jashte stilit te temes..packa se interesante ne llojin e tyre... :D jane me te pershtatshme ne nje teme me erotike dhe me pak romantike...
    lol... jo, jo, dhe ato mire jane ne kete teme. :D

    P.S.: Do t'ju lutesha moderatoreve ta hiqnin ate pjesen ne kllapa nga titulli i temes. :)
    In the sweetness of friendship let there be laughter, for that's how heart finds its morning and is refreshed.

  2. #42
    Unquestionable! Maska e Cupke_pe_Korce
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    Ndersa une kam nje tjeter sugjerim. Tema duhet te quhet: Letra dashurie nga autore te famshem dhe forumiste te 'xhanshem' :) Pse jo?! E, t'ja nise cupka me nje anonime (lol)
    Na i thate edhe ato pak tru qe na kishin mbetur :)
    Summertime, and the livin' is easy...

  3. #43
    madmoiselle Maska e angeldust
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    Jo, jo, forumisteve te xhanshem ju nisen letrat me emer ne privat dhe behen publike vetem pas vdekjes. :D lol
    In the sweetness of friendship let there be laughter, for that's how heart finds its morning and is refreshed.

  4. #44
    Unquestionable! Maska e Cupke_pe_Korce
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    I already feel famous :D
    Summertime, and the livin' is easy...

  5. #45
    Heartless Maska e White_Angel
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    Angel nice job :)

    Gjeta edhe une nje te Viktor Hygo .....


    December 31st, 1851



    You have been wonderful, my Juliette, all through these dark and violent days. If I needed love, you brought it to me, bless you! When, in my hiding places, always dangerous, after a night of waiting, I heard the key of my door trembling in your fingers, peril and darkness were no longer round me--what entered then was light!



    We must never forget those terrible, but so sweet, hours when you were close to me in the intervals of fighting. Let us remember all our lives that dark little room, the ancient hangings, the two armchairs, side by side, the meal we ate off the corner of the table, the cold chicken you had brought; our sweet converse, your caresses, your anxieties, your devotion. You were surprised to find me calm and serene. Do you know whence came both calmness and serenity? From you...




    .......
    O Zot per vete sdua gj jo...por pr prindrit nje dhndr t bukur!

  6. #46
    Heartless Maska e White_Angel
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    Lord Byron ..... ( dreq ,ene ky lol )


    August 1812

    My dearest Caroline,

    If tears, which you saw & know I am not apt to shed, if the agitation in which I parted from you, agitation which you must have perceived through the whole of this most nervous nervous affair, did not commence till the moment of leaving you approached, if all that I have said & done, & am still but too ready to say & do, have not sufficiently proved what my real feelings are & must be ever towards you, my love, I have no other proof to offer.

    God knows I wish you happy, & when I quit you, or rather when you from a sense of duty to your husband & mother quit me, you shall acknowledge the truth of what I again promise & vow, that no other in word or deed shall ever hold the place in my affection which is & shall be most sacred to you, till I am nothing.

    I never knew till that moment, the madness of -- my dearest & most beloved friend -- I cannot express myself -- this is no time for words -- but I shall have a pride, a melancholy pleasure, in suffering what you yourself can hardly conceive -- for you don not know me. -- I am now about to go out with a heavy heart, because -- my appearing this Evening will stop any absurd story which the events of today might give rise to -- do you think now that I am cold & stern, & artful -- will even others think so, will your mother even -- that mother to whom we must indeed sacrifice much, more much more on my part, than she shall ever know or can imagine.

    "Promises not to love you" ah Caroline it is past promising -- but shall attribute all concessions to the proper motive -- & never cease to feel all that you have already witnessed -- & more than can ever be known but to my own heart -- perhaps to yours -- May God protect forgive & bless you -- ever & even more than ever.

    yr. most attached
    BYRON

    P.S. -- These taunts which have driven you to this -- my dearest Caroline -- were it not for your mother & the kindness of all your connections, is there anything on earth or heaven would have made me so happy as to have made you mine long ago? & not less now than then, but more than ever at this time -- you know I would with pleasure give up all here & all beyond the grave for you -- & in refraining from this -- must my motives be misunderstood --? I care not who knows this -- what use is made of it -- it is you & to you only that they owe yourself, I was and am yours, freely & most entirely, to obey, to honour, love --& fly with you when, where, & how you yourself might & may determine.


    ..........
    O Zot per vete sdua gj jo...por pr prindrit nje dhndr t bukur!

  7. #47
    Heartless Maska e White_Angel
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    Mire , mire Lord i paska ndru ca femra ene ky ( lol)


    25 August, 1819

    My dearest Teresa,

    I have read this book in your garden;--my love, you were absent, or else I could not have read it. It is a favourite book of yours, and the writer was a friend of mine. You will not understand these English words, and others will not understand them,--which is the reason I have not scrawled them in Italian. But you will recognize the handwriting of him who passionately loved you, and you will divine that, over a book which was yours, he could only think of love.

    In that word, beautiful in all languages, but most so in yours--Amor mio--is comprised my existence here and hereafter. I feel I exist here, and I feel I shall exist hereafter,--to what purpose you will decide; my destiny rests with you, and you are a woman, eighteen years of age, and two out of a convent. I love you, and you love me,--at least, you say so, and act as if you did so, which last is a great consolation in all events.

    But I more than love you, and cannot cease to love you. Think of me, sometimes, when the Alps and ocean divide us, --but they never will, unless you wish it.



    ...........
    O Zot per vete sdua gj jo...por pr prindrit nje dhndr t bukur!

  8. #48
    Heartless Maska e White_Angel
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    Ja edhe nje tjeter nga Henry IV



    Henry IV of France (1553-1610) was the first Bourbon king of France. He brought a high degree of unity to a country divided by religious differences. King of Navarre from 1572 and king of France from 1589, he was a skilled negotiator and a brilliant soldier in the field.

    This letter is to Gabrielle d'Estr es From the battle field before Dreux

    June 16, 1593

    I have waited patiently for one whole day without news of you; I have been counting the time and that's what it must be. But a second day--I can see no reason for it, unless my servants have grown lazy or been captured by the enemy, for I dare not put the blame on you, my beautiful angel: I am too confident of your affection--which is certainly due to me, for my love was never greater, nor my desire more urgent; that is why I repeat this refrain in all my letters: come, come, come, my dear love.

    Honor with your presence the man who, if only he were free, would go a thousand miles to throw himself at your feet and never move from there. As for what is happening here, we have drained the water from the moat, but our cannons are not going to be in place until Friday when, God willing, I will dine in town.

    The day after you reach Mantes, my sister will arrive at Anet, where I will have the pleasure of seeing you every day. I am sending you a bouquet of orange blossom that I have just received. I kiss the hands of the Vicomtess [Gabrielle's sister, Fran oise] if she is there, and of my good friend [his sister, Catherine of Bourbon], and as for you, my dear love, I kiss your feet a million times.



    p.s. si nuk na dashuron ne njeri keshtu mer Zot
    O Zot per vete sdua gj jo...por pr prindrit nje dhndr t bukur!

  9. #49
    In God I trust Maska e fjollat
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    Letr e padrguar

    Sa piklluese jan letrat pa adres, letrat e padrguara...

    N vijim, letra e viganit t muziks, gjeniut t t gjitha kohrave, Ludwig van Beethoven. Art i mirfillt...

    "To the immortal Beloved"

    July 6, in the morning

    My angel, my all, my very self - Only a few words today and at that with pencil (with yours) - Not till tomorrow will my lodgings be definitely determined upon - what a useless waste of time - Why this deep sorrow when necessity speaks - can our love endure except through sacrifices, through not demanding everything from one another; can you change the fact that you are not wholly mine, I not wholly thine - Oh God, look out into the beauties of nature and comfort your heart with that which must be - Love demands everything and that very justly - thus it is to me with you, and you with me. But you forget so easily that I must live for me and for you; if we were wholly united you would feel the pain of it as little as I - My journey was a fearful one: I did not reach here until 4 o'clock yesterday morning. Lacking horses the post coach chose another route, but what an awful one; at the stage before the last I was warned not to travel at night; I was made fearful of the forest, but that only made me the more eager - and I was wrong. The coach must needs break down on the wretched road, a bottomless mud road. Without such postilions as I had with me I should have remained stuck in the road. Esterhazy, traveling the usual road here, had the same fate with eight horses that I had with four - yet I got some pleasure out of it, as I always do when I successfully overcome difficulties - Now a quick change to things internal from things external. We shall surely see each other soon; moreover, today I cannot share with you the thoughts I have had during these last few days touching my own life - If our hearts were always close together, I would have none of these. My heart is full of so many things to say to you - ah - there are moments when I feel that speech amounts to nothing at all - Cheer up - remain my true, my only treasure, my all as I am yours. The gods must send us the rest, what for us must and shall be-
    Your faithful Ludwig

    Evening, Monday, July 6

    You are suffering, my dearest creature - only now have I learned that letters must be posted very early in the morning on Mondays - Thursdays - the only day on which the mail-coach goes from here to K. - You are suffering - Ah, wherever I am, you are with me - I will arrange it with you and me that I can live with you. What a life!!!! Thus!!!! without you - pursued by the goodness of mankind hither and thither - which I as little want to deserve as I deserve it - Humility of man towards man - it pains me - and when I consider myself in relation to the universe, what am I and what is He - whom we call the greatest - and yet - herein lies the divine in man - I weep when I reflect that you will probably not receive the first report from me until Saturday - Much as you love me - I love you more - But do not ever conceal yourself from me - good night - As I am taking the baths I must go to bed - Oh God - so near! so far! Is not our love truly a heavenly structure, and also as firm as the vault of Heaven? -

    Good morning, on July 7

    Though still in bed, my thoughts go out to you, my Immortal Beloved, not and then joyfully, then sadly, waiting to learn whether or not fate will hear us - I can only live wholly with you or not at all - Yes, I am resolved to wander so long away from you until I can fly to your arms and say that I am really at home with you, and can send my soul enwrapped in you into the lands of spirits - Yes unhappily it must be so - You will be the more contained since you know my fidelity to you. No one else can ever possess my heart - never - never - Oh God, why must one be parted from one whom one so loves. And yet my life in V[ienna] is now a wretched life - Your love makes me at once the happiest and the unhappiest of men - at my age I need a steady, quiet life - can that be so in out connection? My angel, I have just been told that the mail coach goes everyday - therefore I must close at once so that you may receive the l[etter] at once. - Be calm, only by a calm consideration of our existence can we achieve out purpose to live together - Be calm - love me - today - yesterday - what tearful longings for you - you - you - my life - my all - farewell. -Oh continue to love me - never misjudge the most faithful heart of you beloved.
    Ever thine
    ever mine
    ever ours

    I'm muslim, don't panic please.. oh bloody sheeps

  10. #50
    i/e regjistruar Maska e ChuChu
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    leter-shkembim midis Anais Nin and Henry Miller

    Anais on March 2, 1932
    The woman will sit eternally in the tall black armchair. I will be the one woman you will never have ... excessive living weighs down the imagination: we will not live, we will only write and talk to swell the sails.
    (LP p.16)

    Henry on March 4, 1932
    Three minutes after you have gone. No, I can't restrain it. I tell you what you already know - I love you. It is this I destroyed over and over again. At Dijon I wrote you long passionate letters - if you had remained in Switzerland I would have sent them - but how could I send them to Louveciennes?
    Anais, I can't say much now - I am in a fever. I could scarcely talk to you because I was continually on he point of getting up and throuwing my arms around you.
    (LP p.16)

    Henry on March 10, 1932, after they had becomelovers
    You make me tremendously happy to hold me undivided - to let me be the artist, as it were, and yet not forgo the man, the animal, the hungry, insatiable lover. No woman has ever granted me all the privileges I need - and you, why you sing out so blithely, so boldly, with a laugh even - yes, you invite me to go ahead, be myself, benture anything. I adore you for that. That is where you are truly regal, a woman extraordinary. What a woman you are! I laugh to myself now when I think of you. I have no fear of your femaleness.
    (LP p.22)

    Henry on March 21, 1932
    Anais, I don't know how to tell you what I feel. I live in perpetual expectancy. You come and the time slips away in a dream. It is only when you go that I realize completely your presence. And then it is too late. You numb me. [...] This is a little drunken, Anais. I am saying to myself "here is the first woman with whom I can be absolutely sincere." I remember your saying -"you could fool me. I wouldn't know it." When I walk along the boulevards and think of that. I can't fool you - and yet I would like to. I mean that I can never be absolutely loyal - it's not in me. I love women, or life, too much - which it is, I don't know. But laugh, Anais, I love to hear you laugh. You are the only woman who has a sense of gaiety, a wise tolerance - no more, you seem to urge me to betray you. I love you for that. [...]
    I don't know what to expect of you, butit is something in the way of a miracle. I am going to demand everything of you - even the impossible, because you encourage it. You are really strong. I even like your deceit, your treachery. It seems aristocratic to me.
    (LP p.32,33)

    Anais on March 26, 1932
    This is strange, Henry. Before, as soon as I came home from all sorts of places I would sit down and write in my journal. Now I want to write you, talk with you. [...]
    I love when you say all that happens is good, it is good. I say all that happens is wonderful. For me it is all symphonic., and I am so aroused by living - god, Herny, in you alone I have found the same swelling of enthusiasm, the same quick rising of the blood, the fullness, the the fullness ...
    Before, i almost used to think there was something wrong. Everybody else seemed to have the brakes on. [...] I never feel the brakes. I overflow. And when I feel your excitement about life flaring, next to mine, then it makes me dizzy.
    (LP p.36)

    Henry on August 6, 1932
    Don't expect me to be sane anymore. Don't let's be sensible. it was a marriage at Louveciennes - you can't dispute it. I came away with pieces of you sticking to me; I am walking about, swimming, in an ocean of bloodd, your Andalusian blood, distilled and poisonous. Everything I do and say and think relates back to the marriage. I saw you as the mistress of your home, a Moor with a heavy face, a negress with a white body, eyes all over your skin, woman, woman, woman. I can't see how I can go on living away from you [...] You became a woman with me. I was almost terrified by it. You are not just thirty years old - you are a thousand years old. [...]
    Anais, I only thought I loved you before; it was nothing like this certainty that's in me now. Was all this so wonderful only because it was brief and stolen? Were we acting for each other, to each other? Was I less I, or more I, and you less or more you? Is it madness to believe that this could go on? When and where would the drab moments begin?
    (LP p.95,96)

  11. #51
    i/e regjistruar Maska e ChuChu
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    December 1931, Anais wrote the following passage shortly after meeting June (Miller's second wife) for the first time:

    A startingly white face, burning eyes. June Mansfield, Henry's wife. As she came towards me from the darkness of my garden into the light of the doorway I saw for the first time the most beautiful woman on earth.
    Years ago, when I tried to imagine a pure beauty, I had created an image in my mind of just that woman. I had even imagined she would be Jewish. I knew long ago the color of her skin, her profile, her teeth.
    Her beauty drowned me. As I sat in front of her I felt that I would do anything she asked of me. Henry faded, She was color, brilliance, strangeness.
    Her role in life alone preoccupies her. I knew the reason: her beauty brings dramas and events to her. Ideas mean little. I saw in her a caricature of the theatrical and dramatic personage. Costume, attitudes, talk. She is a superb actress. No more. I could not grasp her core. Everything Henry had said about her was true.
    By the end of the evening I was like a man, terribly in love with her face and body, which promised so much, and I hated the self created in her by others. Others feel because of her; and because of her, others write poetry; because of her, others hate; others, like Henry, love her in spite of themselves.
    June. At night I dreamed of her, as if she were very small, very frail, and I loved her. I loved a smallness which had appeared to me in her talk: the disproportionate pride, a hurt pride. She lacks the core of sureness, she craves admiration insatiably. She lives on reflections of herself in others' eyes. She does not dare to be herself. There is no June Mansfield. She knows it. The more she is loved, the more she knows it. She knows there is a very beautiful woman who took her cue last night from my inexperience and tried to lose her depth of knowledge.
    A startingly white face retreating into the darkness of the garden. She poses for me as she leaves. I want to run out and kiss her fantastic beauty, kiss it and say, "You carry away with you a reflection of me, a part of me. I dreamed you, I wished for your existance. You will always be part of my life. If I love you, it must be because we have shared at some time the same imaginings, the same madness, the same stage."
    (HJ pp.14-15)


    In the caf I see the ashes under the skin of her face. Disintegration. What terrible anxiety I feel. I want to put my arms around her. I feel her receding into death and I want to follow her, to embrace her. She is dying before my eyes. Her tantalizing somber beauty is dying. Her strange manlike strength.
    I do not make any sense out of her words. I am fascinated by her eyes andmouth, her discolored mouth, badly rouged. Does she know I feel immobil and fixed, lost in her?
    (HJ p.17)

    January 1932. When she sat on the couch downstairs, the opening of her dress showed the beginning of her breasts, and I wanted to kiss her there. I was acutely upset and trembling. I was becoming aware of her sensitiveness and fear of her own feelings. She talked, but now i knew she talked to evade a deeper inner talk - the things we could not say.
    (HJ p.23)

    In a letter to Henry, dated Feb 22 1932, she writes:
    We have lost our minds - to June. Both you and I would foolow her into death ... at moments. She has destroyed reality. She has destroyed conscience. (You say you haven't any - I say I haven't any, butit is not so true about us as it is about June. Example: Why are you always so thoughtful of Hugh, so considerate?) June is not bothered by truth. She invents her life as she goes along - she sees no difference between fiction and reality. How we love that in her - she takes the imagination seriously. At moments you want to follow June into death, but at others you react violently with a vigorous assertion of youe magnificient livingness.
    (LP p.12)

  12. #52
    Unquestionable! Maska e Cupke_pe_Korce
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    Pak kohe me pare lexova korespondencat qe Martin Heidegger pati shkembyer me Hannah Arendt qysh nga koha kur Arendt ishte nxenesja e tij. Megjithe kete, edhe ate qe Heidegger ishte i martuar, letrat sugjerojne qe dicka me teper se miqesore kish ndodhur ndermjet tyre, nje intimitet qe ata do te ushqenin tere jeten. Pjesa me poshte titullohet "Shadows," dhe eshte nje letter qe Arendt e shkroi per Heidegger ne formen e vetes se trete.


    Her lack of tranquility and her close mindedness made it impossible to respond to events except with vague pain or a dreamy, spellbound sense of being ostracized. For all that, she did not know how to make anything of herself, although, in her condition, which could even be called bewitched and which naturally grew to ever greater absurdities the deeper and, in a certain sense, the more thorough she became, she no longer new and recognized anything but herself. It was not as if something had been forgotten, but rather as if it had been sunk—one thing lost, another vaguely rebelling, with no discipline or order.
    Her agitation whose basis might have been nothing more than her helpless, betrayed youth, manifested itself in her being thrown back on herself, so that she concealed and obscured both her vision and herself and her access to herself. The double nature of her being became so apparent here that she got in her own way, all the more radically and blindly as she got older.
    In this spell, in the inhuman, in the absurd, she had nothing to check her, nothing to hold on to. A radical nature that always went to extremes prevented her from protecting or arming herself and never made her drain the bitterest cup to the dregs. What was good ended badly; what was bad ended well. It’s hard to say which was more unbearable. For what is in fact most unbearable—it takes ones breath away so one cannot contemplate it without the infinite fear that destroys shyness and keeps one from ever feeling at ease—is this: to suffer and to know, at every minute, every second, watchful and defiant, that one must be grateful even for the most extreme pain; indeed, it is such suffering that makes anything at all worthwhile.
    Ndryshuar pr her t fundit nga Cupke_pe_Korce : 08-05-2006 m 18:36
    Summertime, and the livin' is easy...

  13. #53
    i/e regjistruar Maska e Endless
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    Citim Postuar m par nga katana Lexo Postimin
    leila mi shpirt deri sa arrita tek postimi yt desh me ra pika qe askush nuk kishte postuar letrat e Joyce per Noran. Po dhe ti nuk paske postuar ato me te mirat jo. Let me do the honors


    To NORA

    Dublin 8 December 1909



    My sweet little whorish Nora I did as you told me, you dirty little girl, and pulled myself off twice when I read your letter. I am delighted to see that you do like being fucked arseways. Yes, now I can remember that night when I fucked you for so long backwards. It was the dirtiest fucking I ever gave you, darling. My prick was stuck in you for hours, fucking in and out under your upturned rump. I felt your fat sweaty buttocks under my belly and saw your flushed face and mad eyes. At every **** I gave you your shameless tongue came bursting out through your lips and if a gave you a bigger stronger **** than usual, fat dirty farts came spluttering out of your backside. You had an arse full of farts that night, darling, and I fucked them out of you, big fat fellows, long windy ones, quick little merry cracks and a lot of tiny little naughty farties ending in a long gush from your hole. It is wonderful to **** a farting woman when every **** drives one out of her. I think I would know Nora's fart anywhere. I think I could pick hers out in a roomful of farting women. It is a rather girlish noise not like the wet windy fart which I imagine fat wives have. It is sudden and dry and dirty like what a bold girl would let off in fun in a school dormitory at night. I hope Nora will let off no end of her farts in my face so that I may know their smell also.

    You say when I go back you will suck me off and you want me to lick your cunt, you little depraved blackguard. I hope you will surprise me some time when I am asleep dressed, steal over to me with a whore's glow in your slumberous eyes, gently undo button after button in the fly of my trousers and gently take out your lover's fat mickey, lap it up in your moist mouth and suck away at it till it gets fatter and stiffer and comes off in your mouth. Sometimes too I shall surprise you asleep, lift up your skirts and open your drawers gently, then lie down gently by you and begin to lick lazily round your bush. You will begin to stir uneasily then I will lick the lips of my darling's cunt. You will begin to groan and grunt and sigh and fart with lust in your sleep. Then I will lick up faster and faster like a ravenous dog until your cunt is a mass of slime and your body wriggling wildly.

    Goodnight, my little farting Nora, my dirty little fuckbird! There is one lovely word, darling, you have underlined to make me pull myself off better. Write me more about that and yourself, sweetly, dirtier, dirtier.



    JIM

    ROLF :D I like...
    Without deviation from the norm, progress is not possible

  14. #54
    Administratore Maska e Fiori
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    My heart overflows with emotion and joy! I do not know what heavenly languor, what infinite pleasure permeates it and burns me up. It is as if I had never loved! Tell me whence these uncanny disturbances spring, these inexpressible foretastes of delight, these divine, tremors of love. Oh! all this can only spring from you, sister, angel, woman, Marie! All this can only be, is surely nothing less than a gentle ray streaming from your fiery soul, or else some secret poignant teardrop which you have long since left in my breast.

    My God, my God, never force us apart, take pity on us! But what am I saying? Forgive my weakness, how couldst Thou divide us! Thou wouldst have nothing but pity for us... No no! It is not in vain that our flesh and our souls quicken and become immortal through Thy Word, which cries out deep within us Father, Father... out Thy hand to us, that our broken hearts seek their refuge in Thee... O! we thank, bless and praise Thee, O God, for all that Thou has given us, and all that Thou hast prepared for us...

    This is to be - to be!

    Marie! Marie!

    Oh let me repeat that name a hundred times, a thousand times over; for three days now it has lived within me, oppressed me, set me afire. I am not writing to you, no, I am close beside you. I see you, I hear you. Eternity in your arms... Heaven, Hell, everything, all is within you, redoubled... Oh! Leave me free to rave in my delirium. Drab, tame, constricting reality is no longer enough for me. We must live our lives to the full, loving and suffering to extremes!...

    Franz (Liszt)


    p.s. nuk e di ne eshte postuar me pare kjo, por duke qene sezoni thashe ec po hedh nje leter ne forum...

  15. #55
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    S'e kisha menduar se do i kthehesha kesaj teme; tani "shoh" akoma me qarte(teksa kthehem pas) se m bn te dukem qesharak ndaj vetes, mgjth nje te fundit, mbase... Pendim?! Asnje, padiskutim!


    Jack London,

    Dear Anna:

    Did I say that the human might be filed in categories? Well, and if I did, let me qualify -- not all humans. You elude me. I cannot place you, cannot grasp you. I may boast that of nine out of ten, under given circumstances, I can forecast their action; that of nine out of ten, by their word or action, I may feel the pulse of their hearts. But of the tenth I despair. It is beyond me. You are that tenth.

    Were ever two souls, with dumb lips, more incongruously matched! We may feel in common -- surely, we oftimes do -- and when we do not feel in common, yet do we understand; and yet we have no common tongue. Spoken words do not come to us. We are unintelligible. God must laugh at the mummery.

    The one gleam of sanity through it all is that we are both large temperamentally, large enough to often understand. True, we often understand but in vague glimmering ways, by dim perceptions, like ghosts, which, while we doubt, haunt us with their truth. And still, I, for one, dare not believe; for you are that tenth which I may not forecast.

    Am I unintelligible now? I do not know. I imagine so. I cannot find the common tongue.

    Large temperamentally -- that is it. It is the one thing that brings us at all in touch. We have, flashed through us, you and I, each a bit of universal, and so we draw together. And yet we are so different.

    I smile at you when you grow enthusiastic? It is a forgivable smile -- nay, almost an envious smile. I have lived twenty-five years of repression. I learned not to be enthusiastic. It is a hard lesson to forget. I begin to forget, but it is so little. At the best, before I die, I cannot hope to forget all or most. I can exult, now that I am learning, in little things, in other things; but of my things, and secret things doubly mine, I cannot, I cannot. Do I make myself intelligible? Do you hear my voice? I fear not. There are poseurs. I am the most successful of them all.

    Jack

  16. #56
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    Pr: Letra dashurie nga autor t famshm (Tribut pr Shn Valentinin)

    Franz Kafka drejtuar Felice Bauer

    11 November, 1912

    Frulein Felice!

    I am now going to ask you a favor which sounds quite crazy, and which I should regard as such, were I the one to receive the letter. It is also the very greatest test that even the kindest person could be put to. Well, this is it:

    Write to me only once a week, so that your letter arrives on Sunday -- for I cannot endure your daily letters, I am incapable of enduring them. For instance, I answer one of your letters, then lie in bed in apparent calm, but my heart beats through my entire body and is conscious only of you. I belong to you; there is really no other way of expressing it, and that is not strong enough. But for this very reason I don't want to know what you are wearing; it confuses me so much that I cannot deal with life; and that's why I don't want to know that you are fond of me. If I did, how could I, fool that I am, go on sitting in my office, or here at home, instead of leaping onto a train with my eyes shut and opening them only when I am with you? Oh, there is a sad, sad reason for not doing so. To make it short: My health is only just good enough for myself alone, not good enough for marriage, let alone fatherhood. Yet when I read your letter, I feel I could overlook even what cannot possibly be overlooked.

    If only I had your answer now! And how horribly I torment you, and how I compel you, in the stillness of your room, to read this letter, as nasty a letter as has ever lain on your desk! Honestly, it strikes me sometimes that I prey like a spectre on your felicitous name! If only I had mailed Saturday's letter, in which I implored you never to write to me again, and in which I gave a similar promise. Oh God, what prevented me from sending that letter? All would be well. But is a peaceful solution possible now? Would it help if we wrote to each other only once a week? No, if my suffering could be cured by such means it would not be serious. And already I foresee that I shan't be able to endure even the Sunday letters. And so, to compensate for Saturday's lost opportunity, I ask you with what energy remains to me at the end of this letter: If we value our lives, let us abandon it all.

    Did I think of signing myself Dein? No, nothing could be more false. No, I am forever fettered to myself, that's what I am, and that's what I must try to live with.

    Franz

Faqja 3 prej 3 FillimFillim 123

Tema t Ngjashme

  1. Ardian-Christian Kyyku
    Nga Eagle n forumin Shkrimtar shqiptar
    Prgjigje: 29
    Postimi i Fundit: 05-09-2012, 11:35

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