Author of quotes: Stefan Zweig. Page 3

I had one as a diver in a bathysphere, immersed in a black ocean of silence and though vaguely conscious that the saving rope broke and that he never recovered from this speechless silence...

With all manifestations of human, everyday needs for clothing, warmth, sleep, rest, with all the needs of the frail flesh crumbling what separates people, erased the artificial facets that divide the mankind on the just and unjust, worthy and unworthy, there is only ever a suffering animal, creatures, tormented by hunger, thirst, fatigue, as well as you, I and everything.

The signal was filed, a pale flash of lightning, and immediately a cloud of bellicose roar collapsed to the ground water flow and began to water the train wet machine-gun fire. The window was crying under accurate fire from the painful beating of the hail, the locomotive surrendered at discretion, and lowered his black flag. Nothing was visible, nothing was audible - only drops, interrupting each other, hastily drummed on glass and metal, and the train to escape from the rain, ran down the shiny rails, like a pursued animal.

Because he read as others pray, as gamblers play, like a drunken unconsciously staring into space; he read so movingly and enthusiastically, since any other attitude towards reading seemed to me a profanation.

I knew enough tiny clues, because my memory has a strange ability, both good and bad: she is stubborn and willful and yet extremely reliable. It drags on the bottom of important events and persons, read and experienced, and nothing returns from this dark abyss without coercion, only one requirement will. But if I run into the most insignificant hint, the postcard, the familiar handwriting on the envelope, or yellowed paper, and immediately forgotten will emerge from the gloomy depths vividly and clearly, like a fish caught on bait.

In the column "special features" of her book housekeeper stood the hell that means "not available"; but if the officials were required to specify the characteristic features of the external appearance, they would be sufficient one look to record a strong resemblance to the big-boned, lean, pressured by a horse.

All he lived for, everything he loved burned it on a slow fire, were charred, covered in ash and falling in the viscous slime of indifference. He had a vague feeling that something was accomplished in that time, as he lay here on the couch, and thought bitterly about his life. Something has ended. What? He listened and listened.
So began the sunset of his heart.

At that moment I first truly realized how far in I moved the process of ossification: I glided through life, like a fast current mirror the water, never stopping, not letting the roots, and knew very well that this cold is something of the dead man's body - though still without the putrid smell of decay, but this spiritual rigor, the terrible, icy numbness, as if already anticipated true, visible death.

Already last moment of intimacy was poisoned increasing alarm; she was in a hurry to get away from the rush she was shaking, she delved into the words of the beloved, eagerly suppress a farewell flash of passion, all of it has been torn away, away from his apartment, from his home, from adventures, back to his quiet, settled world.

The air felt of spring. In the sky fluttering clouds, white, frisky, as they are only in may and June, when, careless, young, they rush playing on the blue road, then hide behind high mountains, embracing and then run away, then compressed into a handkerchief, then torn into strips and, finally, fooling around, clapped the white-caps on the tops of the mountains.

He was one of those, for whom there is no love, no women. He who has endured, in a single moment of life to love and to be loved, he, who so fully knew the depth of feelings, experienced more desire to look for something that it itself has fallen into the immature, pliable, timid hand. He has traveled to many countries - one of those unflappable, proper Britons, whom the rumor often called unfeeling because they are so silent and their gaze calmly slides past women's faces and women's smiles. And no one realizes that, perhaps, they are in the shower pictures, forever chained to their internal sight that the memory of past burns in their blood, as the inextinguishable lamp before the image of Madonna...

An hour left until night. Magic hour, for there is nothing more wonderful than to observe, how slowly fade and covered with shadows the colours of the sunset as it rises from the floor in the darkness, while black noiseless streams it does not overwhelm the wall and not entice us into the darkness.

Only the lonely children may fully to bear in his passion, the other blurts out his feelings to her friends, dulled his confessions - they had often heard and read about love and know that she is the inevitable fate of all people. They amuse it as a toy to brag about it, as the boys smoked their first cigarette.

The young people coveted my position, but I pushed them with a kind of passionate perseverance. I didn't want to be happy, not wanted to be happy away from you. I purposely withdrew into a dark world of self-torture and loneliness.