Download this stock image: 18 Bruno Schulz – Sanatorium pod Klepsydrą – MYXENB from Alamy’s library of millions of high resolution stock photos, illustrations. 8 quotes from Sanatorium Under the Sign of the Hourglass: ‘There are things than cannot ever occur with any precision. They are too big and too magnifice. ; as Cinnamon Shops and Other Stories, ; as The Fictions of Bruno Schulz, Sanatorium pod klepsydr, ; as Sanatorium under the Sign of.
|Published (Last):||22 September 2015|
|PDF File Size:||14.39 Mb|
|ePub File Size:||4.18 Mb|
|Price:||Free* [*Free Regsitration Required]|
Sanatorium Under the Sign of the Hourglass Quotes
Sign in with Facebook Sign in options. Want to Read saving….
Want to Read Currently Reading Read. Refresh and try again. They are too big and too magnificent to be contained in mere klepsydrr. They are merely trying to occur, they are checking whether the ground of reality can carry them.
And they quickly withdraw, fearing to loose their integrity in the frailty of realization. In Dodo’s body, the body of a half-wit, somebody was growing old, although he had not lived; somebody sanwtorium maturing to a death that had no meaning at all.
Having been carried away, I have to find my difficult way back, and slowly return to my senses. On the contrary, the interior is pulsating with light. It is, brunk course, the internal light of roots, a wandering phosphorescence, tiny veins of a light marbling the darkness, an evanescent shimmer of nightmarish substances.
Books similar to Sanatorium Under the Sign of the Hourglass
Likewise, when we sleep, severed from the world, straying into deep introversion, on a return journey into ourselves, we can see clearly through our closed eyelids, because sannatorium are kindled in us by internal tapers and smolder erratically. This is how total regressions occur, retreats into self, journeys to the roots. This is how we branch out into anamnesis and are shaken by underground subcutaneous shivers.
For it is only above ground, in the light of day, that we are a trembling, articulate bundle of tunes; in the depth we disintegrate again into black murmurs, confused purring, a multitude of unfinished stories. Each of them has only one moment, a moment when it soars screaming like the phoenix, all its pages aflame. For that single moment we love them ever after, although they soon turn to ashes.
With bitter resignation we sometimes wander late at night through the extinct pages that tell their stone dead messages like wooden rosary beads. Or at least a chimney sweep.
In the morning, at dawn, I would enter some half-opened gateway, still lighted by the watchman’s lantern. I would put two fingers to my hat, crack a joke, and enter the labyrinth to leave late in the evening, at the other end of the city. I would spend all day going from apartment to apartment, conducting one never-ending conversation from one end of the city to the other, divided into parts among the householders; I would ask something in one apartment and receive a reply in another, make a joke in one place and collect the fruits of laughter in the third or fourth.
Among the banging of doors I would squeeze through narrow passages, through bedrooms full of furniture, I would upset chamberpots, walk into squeaking perambulators in which babies cry, pick up rattles dropped by infants. I would stop for longer than necessary in kitchens and hallways, where servant girls were tidying up.
The girls, busy, would stretch their young legs, tauten their high insteps, play with their cheap shining shoes, or clack around in loose slippers. Just a moment while we sign you in to your Goodreads account.