Letra dashurie nga autorë të famshëm (Tribut për Shën Valentinin)

[ChuChu]

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 café 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)

[Cupke_pe_Korce]

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.

[Endless]

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...

[Fiori]

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...

[EXODUS]

S'e kisha menduar se do i kthehesha kesaj teme; tani "shoh" akoma me qarte(teksa kthehem pas) se më bën 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

[EXODUS]

Franz Kafka drejtuar Felice Bauer

11 November, 1912

Fräulein 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