Pratite nas na:      Facebook      Instagram

Tag

semjuel beket

0

Beket u očima drugih

Književnost

„Pamtim njegova ćutanja podjednako kao što pamtim njegove reči.” Alba Arika „Što dalje ide, bolje za mene. Ne želim filozofiju, traktate, dogme, religiju, izlaz, istine, odgovore, ništa iz podruma nagodbe. On je najhrabriji, nemilosrdni pisac i što više potapa moj…

0

O mačkama i piscima

Književnost

Suprotno uvrezenom misljenju, ove fotografije i izjave poznatih pisaca potvrdjuju da su macke najbolji covekov prijatelj:  “A cat has absolute emotional honesty: human beings, for one reason or another, may hide their feelings, but a cat does not.” —Ernest Hemingway…

0

Najveći književnici viđeni objektivom Gisela Freunda

Književnost

Gisele Freund,rodjen u Berlinu 1908.godine,  bio je jedan od najemintentijih evropskih fotografa, mozda najpoznatiji po portretima koje je radio. Medju prvima je napravio fotografije u boji brojnih knjizevnika, poput Simon d Buvoar, Virdzinije Vulf i mnogih.drugih. fotografija:Dzejms Dzojs, Silvija Bic…

0

Lista knjiga za čitanje Semjuela Beketa

Književnost

This side of the pond blog Cambridge University pressa je sastavio listu knjiga za čitanje Semjuela Beketa iz poslednjeg izdanja knjige njegovih Pisama (1941-1956) · Andromaha-Žan Rasin :Ponovo sam pročitao Andromaha sa većim divljenjem nego ikada i sa boljim razumevanjem,…

0

Samuel Beckett:Unnamable

Književnost
Unfortunately I am afraid, as always, of going on. For to go on means going from here, means finding me, losing me, vanishing and beginning again, a stranger first, then little by little the same as always, in another place, where I shall say I have always been, of which I shall know nothing, being incapable of seeing, moving, thinking, speaking, but of which little by little, in spite of these handicaps, I shall begin to know something, just enough for it to turn out to be the same place as always, the same which seems made for me and does not want me, which I seem to want and do not want, take your choice, which spews me out or swallows me up, I’ll never know, which is perhaps merely the inside of my distant skull where once I wandered, now am fixed, lost for tininess, or straining against the walls, with my head, my hands, my feet, my back, and ever murmuring my old stories, my old story, as if it were the first time.
Close