Fragmente interesante librash

[FLOWER]

Bukur fort-kush eshte vetem, ate nuk ka se kush ta braktise. Por nganjehere, e sidomos naten, thyhej ne cope e therrime keshtjella e rreme, jeta shnderrohej ne nje melodi te perjavshme e te ndersyer…te perfshinte nje vorbull malli e cmendur, nje vorbull deshire, pikellimi dhe shprese dhe mundoheshe si e si te shpetoje nga kjo shushatje e pakuptimte, deshiroje te arratiseshe nga kjo llomotitje bajate e nje organoje qe ia merrte gjithmone te njejtit avaz…te ikje, vec te ikje – pavaresisht se ku! …Ah, kjo nevoje mjerane per pakez ngrohtesi! Valle, a s’do te mjaftonin vetem dy duar dhe nje fytyre e perkulur mbi fytyren tende? Apo mos ishte edhe kjo vetem nje vegim mashtrues, nje heqje dore, nje arratisje nga vetvetja? A ekzistonte valle ndonje gje tjeter, pervec te qenet vetem?


Remark Tre shoket

[FLOWER]

-S’e sheh qe jam e lumtur?-tha ajo.
Une ngriva ne vend dhe ia mbertheva syte. Ishte vetem nje fjale, por nje fjale qe s’e kisha degjuar kurre ne kete menyre. Mjaft gra pata njohur, por gjithmone kishin qene vetem takime te rastit, aventura, nganjehere ndonje ore variacionesh, nje mbremje e vetmuar, arratisje nga vetvetja, nga deshperimi, nga zbrazetia. As vete nuk kisha dashur te kishte ndodhur ndryshe, sepse jeta me kish mesuar qe njeriu s’mund te mbeshtetej pas asgjeje, vecse pas vetes dhe, shume shume, edhe pas nje shoku te vertete. Kurse tani, papritmas, po kuptoja se mund te vleja dicka per nje njeri tjeter, vetem e vetem sepse ekzistoja dhe sepse ai njeri ishte i lumtur qe I ndodhesha prane. Kur flasim keshtu per te tilla gjera, gjithcka tingellon shume e thjeshte; por kur e vrasim mendjen, del se eshte fjala per nje ceshtje shume me te madhe, e cila s’ka as fund as ane. Eshte dicka qe mund te te shqyeje nga Brenda e te te ndryshoje krejtesisht. Eshte dashuri dhe prapeseprape dicka tjeter. Dicka per te cilen e vlen te jetohet. Per dashuria nje burre nuk mund te jetoje. Kurse per nje njeri jeton.
U mat ate them ndonje gje, por s’ia dola dot. Eshte e veshtire te gjesh fjale, kur ke per te thene vertete dicka. Edhe sikur t’i dish ato fjale qe duhen, atehere te vjen turp t’i shprehesh. Te gjitha keto i perkasin shekujve te kaluar. Koha jone ende nuk i ka gjetur fjalet e duhura per ndjenjat e saj. Ajo di vetem te shprehet me arrogance-te gjitha te tjerat jane te rreme.


Remark Tre shoket

[FLOWER]

Ai arriti ne perfundimin se nuk dinte c'te besonte. mesa dukej, ne jete, cdo gje ishte e lejuar dhe asgje e percaktuar. dukej se cdo gje ndryshohej vazhdimisht dhe, keshtu, vinin njera pas tjeteres ngritjet dhe reniet, hidherimet dhe gezimet. Por Juxhini, megjithese ne castet ku i numeronte keto gjera, ose i dikutonte me te tjeret, ishte i prirur te denonte hapur jeten, ai e kuptonte se, jo vetem castet me te bukura, por edhe ne te keqijat, ajo ishte plot bukuri, poezi, kenaqesi dhe, sado qe te vuante e te mundohej, jeta, te cilen edhe e donte, edhe e urrente, do te vazhdonte te shnderriste si gjithmone. ai mund te deshtonte, te vdiste, por jeta do te vazhdonte ne amshim. per jeten, ai s'ishte asgje, por sa dhimbje te medha, sa gezime merrte ajo ne kendet e fshehta te tempullit te saj, ne iluzionet e embla qe te ngjallte.

Gjeniu Drajzer

[ILovePejaa]

It goes a long way back, some 20 years. All my life I had been looking for something, and everywhere I turned someone tried to tell me what it was, I accepted their answers too, though they were often in contradiction and even self-contradictory. I was naive. I was looking for myself and asking everyone except myself questions which I, and only I could answer. It took me a longtime and much painful boomeranging of my expectations to achieve a realization everyone else appears to have been born with: that I am nobody but myself. But first I had to discover that I am an Invisible Man.

[ILovePejaa]

I am a sick man. ... I am a spiteful man. I am an unattractive man. I believe my liver is diseased. However, I know nothing at all about my disease, and do not know for certain what ails me. I don't consult a doctor for it, and never have, though I have a respect for medicine and doctors. Besides, I am extremely superstitious, sufficiently so to respect medicine, anyway (I am well-educated enough not to be superstitious, but I am superstitious). No, I refuse to consult a doctor from spite. That you probably will not understand. Well, I understand it, though. Of course, I can't explain who it is precisely that I am mortifying in this case by my spite: I am perfectly well aware that I cannot "pay out" the doctors by not consulting them; I know better than anyone that by all this I am only injuring myself and no one else. But still, if I don't consult a doctor it is from spite. My liver is bad, well--let it get worse!

I have been going on like that for a long time--twenty years. Now I am forty. I used to be in the government service, but am no longer. I was a spiteful official. I was rude and took pleasure in being so.

....

Now, I am living out my life in my corner, taunting myself with the spiteful and useless consolation that an intelligent man cannot become anything seriously, and it is only the fool who becomes anything. Yes, a man in the nineteenth century must and morally ought to be pre-eminently a characterless creature; a man of character, an active man is pre-eminently a limited creature. That is my conviction of forty years. I am forty years old now, and you know forty years is a whole lifetime; you know it is extreme old age. To live longer than forty years is bad manners, is vulgar, immoral. Who does live beyond forty? Answer that, sincerely and honestly I will tell you who do: fools and worthless fellows. I tell all old men that to their face, all these venerable old men, all these silver-haired and reverend seniors! I tell the whole world that to its face! I have a right to say so, for I shall go on living to sixty myself. To seventy! To eighty! ... Stay, let me take breath ...
You imagine no doubt, gentlemen, that I want to amuse you. You are mistaken in that, too. I am by no means such a mirthful person as you imagine, or as you may imagine.

[ILovePejaa]

Do we need to return to religion? Is that the missing link?

Return to spirituality. Forget about religion.

That statement is going to anger a lot of people.

People will react to this entire book with anger. . . unless they do not.

Why do You say, forget religion?

Because it is not good for you. Understand that in order for organized religion to succeed, it has to make people believe they need it. In order for people to put faith in something else, they must first lose faith in themselves. So the first task of organized religion is to make you lose faith in yourself. The second task is to make you see that it has the answers you do not. And the third and most important task is to make you accept its answers without question.
If you question, you start to think!
If you think, you start to go back to that Source Within. Religion can't have you do that, because you're liable to come up with an answer different from what it has contrived. So religion must make you doubt your Self; must make you doubt your own ability to think straight. The problem for religion is that very often this backfires—for if you cannot accept without doubt your own thoughts, how can you not doubt the new ideas about God which religion has given you?
Pretty soon, you even doubt My existence—which, ironically, you never doubted before. When you were living by your intuitive knowing, you may not have had Me all figured out, but you definitely knew I was there It is religion which has created agnostics.

Any clear thinker who looks at what religion has done must assume religion has no God! For it is religion which has filled the hearts of men with fear of God, where once man loved That Which Is in all its splendor. It is religion which has ordered men to bow down before God, where once man rose up in joyful outreach.
It is religion which has burdened man with worries about God's wrath, where once man sought God to lighten his burden!
It is religion which told man to be ashamed of his body and its most natural functions, where once man celebrated those functions as the greatest gifts of life!
It is religion which taught you that you must have an intermediary in order to reach God, where once you thought yourself to be reaching God by the simple living of your life in goodness and in truth.
And it is religion which commanded humans to adore God, where once humans adored God because it was impossible not to!
Everywhere religion has gone it has created disunity—which is the opposite of God.
Religion has separated man from God, man from man, man from woman—some religions actually telling man that he is above woman, even as it claims God is above man—thus setting the stage for the greatest travesties ever foisted upon half the human race.
I tell you this: God is not above man, and man is not above woman—that is not the "natural order of things"—but it is the way everyone who had power (namely, men) wished it was when they formed their male-worship religions, systematically editing out half the material from their final version of the "holy scriptures" and twisting the rest to fit the mold of their male model of the world.
It is religion which insists to this very day that women are somehow less, somehow second-class spirifii.il citizens, somehow not "suited" to teach the Word of God, preach the Word of Cod, or minister to the people.

[FLOWER]

Dost thou know me so little, Hester Prynne? Are my purposes wont to be so shallow? Even if I imagine a scheme of vengeance, what could I do better for my object than to let thee live, - than to give thee medicines against all harm and peril of life, - so that this burning shame may still blaze upon thy bosom?

I ask not wherefore, nor how, thou hst fallen into the pit, or say rather, thou hast ascended to the pedestal of infamy, on which i found thee. the reason is not for to seek. it was my folly and thy weakness. i, - a man of thought, - the book-worm of great libraries, - a man already in decay, having given my best years to feed the hungry dream of knowledge, - what had i to do with youth and beauty like thy own! misshappen from my birth-hour, how, how could i delude myself with the idea that intellectual gifts might veil physical deformity in a young girl's fantasy!


Scarlet letter - Nathaniel Howthorne (biseda e hesterit me te shoqin)

[Fiori]

In his book “Demian”, Herman Hesse says :-“ Each man’s life represents a road toward himself, an attempt at such a road, the intimation of a path. No man has ever been entirely and completely himself. Yet each one strives to become that – one in an awkward, the other in a more intelligent way, each as best he can. Each man carries the vestiges of his birth – the slime and eggshells of his primeval past – with him to the end of his days. Some never become human, remaining frog, lizard, ant. Some are human above the waist, fish below. Each represents a gamble on the part of nature in creation of the human. We all share the same origin, our mothers; all of us come in at the same door. But each of us – experiments of the depth – strives toward his own destiny. We can understand one another; but each of us is able to interpret himself to himself alone.”


p.s. Reading an old school paper dating year 2001

[Cupke_pe_Korce]

Autumn Plaint

Since Maria left me to go to another star - which one, Orion, Altair - or
you green Venus? - I have always loved solitude. How many long days I have passed alone with my cat. By alone I mean without a material being, and my cat is a mystic companion, a spirit. I can say then that I have passed long days alone with my cat and alone with one of the last authors of the Roman decadence; for since the white creature is no more I have loved, uniquely and strangely, everything summed up in the word: fall. So, in the year, my favourite season is the last slow part of summer that just precedes autumn, and, in the day, the hour when I walk is when the sun hesitates before vanishing, with rays of yellow bronze over the grey walls, and rays of red copper over the tiles. Literature, also, from which my spirit asks voluptuousness, that will be the agonised poetry of Rome’s last moments, so long as it does not breathe a breath of the reinvigorated stance of the Barbarians or stammer in childish Latin like Christian prose. I was reading then one of those dear poems (whose flakes of rouge have more charm for me than young flesh), and dipping a hand into the pure animal fur, when a street organ sounded languishingly and sadly under my window. It was playing in the great alley of poplars whose leaves, even in spring, seem mournful to me since Maria passed by them, on her last journey, lying among candles. The instrument of sadnesses, yes, certainly: the piano flashes, the violin gives off light from its torn fibres, but the street organ in memory’s half-light made me dream despairingly. Now it murmured a delightfully common song that filled the faubourgs with joy, an old, banal tune: why did its words pierce my soul and make me cry, like any romantic ballad? I savoured it slowly and did not throw a coin through the window for fear of troubling my spirit and discovering that not only the instrument was playing.

-Stéphane Mallarmé

[FLOWER]

You just came home in time for the funeral, Stella. And funerals are pretty compared to deaths. Funerals are pretty compared to deaths. Funerals are quiet, but deaths - not always. Sometimes their breathing is hoarse, and sometimes it rattles, to you "Don't let me go!" As if you were able to stop them! But funerals are quiet with pretty flowers. And, oh, what goegeous boxes they pack them away in!


Tennesse Williams A streetcart named Desire