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Cytat
Do celu tam się wysiada. Lec Stanisław Jerzy (pierw. de Tusch-Letz, 1909-1966)
A bogowie grają w kości i nie pytają wcale czy chcesz przyłączyć się do gry (. . . ) Bogowie kpią sobie z twojego poukładanego życia (. . . ) nie przejmują się zbytnio ani naszymi planami na przyszłość ani oczekiwaniami. Gdzieś we wszechświecie rzucają kości i przypadkiem wypada twoja kolej. I odtąd zwyciężyć lub przegrać - to tylko kwestia szczęścia. Borys Pasternak
Idąc po kurzych jajach nie podskakuj. Przysłowie szkockie
I Herkules nie poradzi przeciwko wielu.
Dialog półinteligentów równa się monologowi ćwierćinteligenta. Stanisław Jerzy Lec (pierw. de Tusch - Letz, 1909-1966)
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. I know what you expect me to say, he said. You expect me to say as I d sooner be young again.Mostpeople d say they d sooner be young, if you arst em.You got your ealth and strength when you re young.When you get to my time of life you ain t never well.I suffer something wicked from my feet, and mybladder s jest terrible.Six and seven times a night it as me out of bed.On the other and, there s greatadvantages in being a old man.You ain t got the same worries.No truck with women, and that s a greatthing.I ain t ad a woman for near on thirty year, if you d credit it.Nor wanted to, what s more.Winston sat back against the window-sill.It was no use going on.He was about to buy some more beerwhen the old man suddenly got up and shuffled rapidly into the stinking urinal at the side of the room.Theextra half-litre was already working on him.Winston sat for a minute or two gazing at his empty glass, andhardly noticed when his feet carried him out into the street again.Within twenty years at the most, hereflected, the huge and simple question, Was life better before the Revolution than it is now? would haveceased once and for all to be answerable.But in effect it was unanswerable even now, since the fewscattered survivors from the ancient world were incapable of comparing one age with another.Theyremembered a million useless things, a quarrel with a workmate, a hunt for a lost bicycle pump, theexpression on a long-dead sister s face, the swirls of dust on a windy morning seventy years ago: but all therelevant facts were outside the range of their vision.They were like the ant, which can see small objects butnot large ones.And when memory failed and written records were falsified when that happened, the claimof the Party to have improved the conditions of human life had got to be accepted, because there did notexist, and never again could exist, any standard against which it could be tested.At this moment his train of thought stopped abruptly.He halted and looked up.He was in a narrowstreet, with a few dark little shops, interspersed among dwelling-houses.Immediately above his head therehung three discoloured metal balls which looked as if they had once been gilded.He seemed to know theplace.Of course! He was standing outside the junk-shop where he had bought the diary.A twinge of fear went through him.It had been a sufficiently rash act to buy the book in the beginning,and he had sworn never to come near the place again.And yet the instant that he allowed his thoughts towander, his feet had brought him back here of their own accord.It was precisely against suicidal impulsesof this kind that he had hoped to guard himself by opening the diary.At the same time he noticed thatalthough it was nearly twenty-one hours the shop was still open.With the feeling that he would be lessconspicuous inside than hanging about on the pavement, he stepped through the doorway.If questioned, hecould plausibly say that he was trying to buy razor blades.The proprietor had just lighted a hanging oil lamp which gave off an unclean but friendly smell.He wasa man of perhaps sixty, frail and bowed, with a long, benevolent nose, and mild eyes distorted by thickspectacles.His hair was almost white, but his eyebrows were bushy and still black.His spectacles, hisgentle, fussy movements, and the fact that he was wearing an aged jacket of black velvet, gave him a vagueair of intellectuality, as though he had been some kind of literary man, or perhaps a musician.His voice wassoft, as though faded, and his accent less debased than that of the majority of proles. I recognized you on the pavement, he said immediately. You re the gentleman that bought the younglady s keepsake album.That was a beautiful bit of paper, that was.Cream-laid, it used to be called.There s been no paper like that made for -- oh, I dare say fifty years. He peered at Winston over the top ofhis spectacles. Is there anything special I can do for you? Or did you just want to look round? I was passing, said Winston vaguely. I just looked in.I don t want anything in particular. It s just as well, said the other, because I don t suppose I could have satisfied you. He made anapologetic gesture with his softpalmed hand. You see how it is; an empty shop, you might say.Betweenyou and me, the antique trade s just about finished.No demand any longer, and no stock either.Furniture,china, glass it s all been broken up by degrees.And of course the metal stuff s mostly been melted down.Ihaven t seen a brass candlestick in years. The tiny interior of the shop was in fact uncomfortably full, but there was almost nothing in it of theslightest value.The floorspace was very restricted, because all round the walls were stacked innumerabledusty picture-frames.In the window there were trays of nuts and bolts, worn-out chisels, penknives withbroken blades, tarnished watches that did not even pretend to be in going order, and other miscellaneousrubbish
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