Bruno Schulz cytaty

Bruno Schulz – polski prozaik żydowskiego pochodzenia, grafik, malarz, rysownik i krytyk literacki. Wikipedia

✵ 12. Lipiec 1892 – 19. Listopad 1942

Bruno Schulz Fotografia

User:E-paprykarz, original uploader was User:E-paprykarz / CC BY-SA 4.0

Dzieło

Sklepy cynamonowe

Sklepy cynamonowe

Bruno Schulz

Sklepy cynamonowe

Sklepy cynamonowe

Bruno Schulz

Bruno Schulz: 47 cytatów10 Polubień

Bruno Schulz słynne cytaty

„Czy to nie jest wielka rzecz – znaczyć dla kogoś wszystko?”

Księga listów
Źródło: s. 130.

„Słabość ludzi wydaje nam ich dusze, czyni ich potrzebującymi. Bez przywar byliby zamknięci w sobie i nie potrzebujący niczego. Dopiero ich wady nadają im smak i czynią pociągającymi.”

Księga listów
Źródło: s. 48.

„Wielkość rozsiana jest skąpo w planie świata.”

Źródło: Powstają legendy w: W blasku legendy. Kronika poetycka życia Józefa Piłsudskiego, oprac. Krzysztof A. Jeżewski, wyd. Editions Spotkania, 1988, s. 9.

„Miał oczy nieprawdopodobnie błękitne, nie stworzone do patrzenia, tylko do bezdennego zniebieszczania się w marzeniu.”

Źródło: Republika marzeń

„To jest największe nieszczęście – nie wyżyć życia.”

Księga listów
Źródło: s. 163.

„Dobrze jest i pokrzepiająco – mieć przyjaciół z ducha.”

Księga listów
Źródło: s. 71.

Bruno Schulz Cytaty o czasie

„Potrzebny mi jest towarzysz. Potrzebna mi jest bliskość pokrewnego człowieka. Pragnę jakiejś poręki świata wewnętrznego, którego istnienie postuluję. Wciąż tylko trzymać go na własnej wierze, dźwigać go wbrew wszystkiemu siłą swej przekory – jest trudem i udręką Atlasa. Czasem zdaje mi się, że tym wytężonym gestem dźwigania trzymam nic na swoich barkach. Chciałbym móc na chwilę złożyć ten ciężar na czyichś ramionach, rozprostować kark i spojrzeć na to, co dźwigałem”

Księga listów
Źródło: s. 9, list do Tadeusza Brezy

„Każdy wie, że w szeregu zwykłych, normalnych lat rodzi niekiedy zdziwaczały czas ze swego łona lata inne, lata osobliwe, lata wyrodne, którym, jak szósty mały palec u ręki, wyrasta kędyś trzynasty, fałszywy miesiąc.”

Bruno Schulz książka Sklepy cynamonowe

Sklepy cynamonowe
Źródło: Sklepy cynamonowe, Noc wielkiego sezonu, Tow. Wyd. Rój, Warszawa 1934, s. 199.

„Siedzę i słucham ciszy. Pokój jest po prostu wybielony wapnem. Czasem na białym suficie wystrzeli kurza łapka pęknięcia, czasem płatek tynku obsuwa się z szelestem. Czy mam zdradzić, że pokój mój jest zamurowany? Jakżeż to? Zamurowany? W jakiż sposób mógłbym zeń wyjść? Otóż to właśnie: dla dobrej woli nie ma zapory, intensywnej chęci nic się nie oprze. Muszę sobie tylko wyobrazić drzwi, dobre stare drzwi, jak w kuchni mego dzieciństwa, z żelazną klamką i ryglem. Nie ma pokoju tak zamurowanego, żeby się na takie drzwi zaufane nie otwierał, jeśli tylko starczy sił, by mu je zainsynuować.”

Sanatorium pod klepsydrą

Bruno Schulz cytaty

„Materii dana jest nieskończona płodność, niewyczerpana moc życiowa i zarazem uwodna siła pokusy, która nas nęci do formowania.”

Bruno Schulz książka Sklepy cynamonowe

Sklepy cynamonowe
Źródło: Sklepy cynamonowe, Traktat o manekinach, Tow. Wyd. Rój, Warszawa 1934, s. 71.

„Cóż można począć w takim świecie? Jak nie zwątpić, jak nie upaść na duchu, gdy wszystko jest zamknięte na głucho, zamurowane nad swoim sensem, i wszędzie tylko stukasz w cegłę, jak w ścianę więzienia?”

Sanatorium pod klepsydrą

„Ulica Krokodyli była koncesją naszego miasta na rzecz nowoczesności i zepsucia wielkomiejskiego. Widocznie nie stać nas było na nic innego, jak na papierową imitację, jak na fotomontaż złożony z wycinków zleżałych, zeszłorocznych gazet.”

Opowiadania, wybór esejów i listów

„Fascynowały go formy graniczne, wątpliwe i problematyczne, jak ektoplazma somnambulików, pseudomateria, emanacja kataleptyczna mózgu, która w pewnych wypadkach rozrastała się z ust uśpionego na cały stół, napełniała cały pokój, jako bujająca, rzadka tkanka, astralne ciasto, na pograniczu ciała i ducha.”

Opowiadania, wybór esejów i listów

Bruno Schulz: Cytaty po angielsku

“My ideal goal is to "mature" into childhood. That would be genuine maturity.”

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“The days hardened with cold and boredom like last year's loaves of bread. One began to cut them with blunt knives without appetite, with a lazy indifference.”

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Bruno Schulz książka Sklepy cynamonowe

Źródło: The Street of Crocodiles

“The moon was still high. The sky’s transformations—the metamorphoses of its multitudinous vaults in ever more masterfully described configurations—were unending. Like a silver astrolabe, the sky had opened up that night its bewitching internal mechanism, exhibiting in endless cycles the gilded mathematics of its cogs and wheels.”

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“The Cinnamon Shops” http://www.schulzian.net/translation/shops/shops.htm <br class="br">His father, The heavens

“And then there is all this highly improper manipulation of time, these indecent dealings, sneaking into its mechanism at the back and tampering dangerously with its precarious secrets. Sometimes, one wants to bang on the table and shout at the top of one’s voice, “Enough of this! Keep your hands off time! Time is untouchable! It is not permissible to aggravate time! Space is for man. In space you may go where you please; you may turn somersaults, fall head over heels, leap from star to star… But for the love of God, leave time alone!””

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“The Sanatorium at the Sign of the Hourglass” http://www.schulzian.net/translation/sanatorium/sanatorium1.htm <br class="br">His father, Time

“I came to understand why animals have horns. It was the incomprehensibility that could not be contained within their lives, a wild and obsessive caprice, their ill-judged and blind obstinacy. Some idée fixe—grown beyond the borders of their being and high above their heads, suddenly brought into the light—had solidified into palpable, hard matter. There, it had assumed its wild, incalculable, and incredible shape, twisted into a fantastical arabesque, invisible to their eyes, but dreadful nonetheless, the unknown numeral under whose menace they lived. I understood why those animals were disposed to ill-judged and wild panic, to startled frenzy. Herded into their mania, they could not extricate themselves from the knot of those horns, and so, lowering their heads, they looked out sadly and wildly from between them as if trying to find a pathway through their branches.”

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“The Brilliant Epoch” http://www.schulzian.net/translation/sanatorium/epoch1.htm <br class="br">His father, Living things

“In July, my father left to take the waters; he left me with my mother and older brother at the mercy of the summer days, white from the heat and stunning. Stupefied by the light, we leafed through that great book of the holiday, in which the pages were ablaze with splendour, their sickly sweet pulp, deep within, made from golden pears.”

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“August” http://www.schulzian.net/translation/shops/august1.htm <br class="br">His father, The seasons

“Sometimes, a whole bright day passes in explosions of the sun, in accumulations of clouds encircled by redness at their edges, luminously and chromatically, breaking off at every edge. People go about stupefied by the light, their eyes closed, exploding inwardly with rockets, Roman candles and powder-kegs. But later, toward evening, that hurricane fire of light softens. The horizon grows rotund, beautiful, and full of azure, like a glass ball in a garden with its miniature and illuminated panorama of the world, in a happily ordered composition, above which the clouds are arranged, its conclusive toppings, unfolding in a long row like rouleaux of golden medals, or peals of bells combining in rosy litanies.”

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“Spring” http://www.schulzian.net/translation/sanatorium/spring01.htm <br class="br">His father, The heavens

“Everybody knows that, in the course of mundane and ordinary years, whimsical time will occasionally bring forth from its womb other years, odd years, degenerate years, somewhere in which, like a little sixth finger upon a hand, a spurious thirteenth month sprouts up; spurious, we say; for seldom will it grow to full size. Like late begotten children, it lags behind in its development, a hunchback month, a half-wilted offshoot, and more conjectured than real.”

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“A Night of the High Season” http://www.schulzian.net/translation/shops/night.htm <br class="br">His father, Time

“filled with boredom, the winter days were here. A threadbare and patchy, too-short mantle of snow was spread over the reddened earth. It was too meagre for the many roofs, which remained black or rust coloured, shingled roofs like arks and thatched cottages, concealing within them the smoke-blackened expanses of attics—charred-black cathedrals bristling with ribs of rafters, purlins and joists, dark lungs of the winter gales. Each dawn uncovered new vent pipes and chimney stacks, sprung up in the night, blown out by the nocturnal gale—black pipes of the Devil’s organs.”

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“The Birds” http://www.schulzian.net/translation/shops/birds.htm <br class="br">His father, The seasons

“Adela returned on luminous mornings, like Pomona from the fire of the enkindled day, tipping from her basket the colourful beauty of the sun: glistening wild cherries, full of water under their transparent skins, mysterious black cherries whose aroma surpassed that which would be realised in their taste, and apricots, in whose golden pulp lay the core of the long afternoons.”

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“August” http://www.schulzian.net/translation/shops/august1.htm <br class="br">His father, Adela (the domestic servant)

“Demiurgus [said my father] was enamoured of refined, perfect, and sophisticated materials. We give precedence to junk. We are simply rapt by it, entranced by the cheapness, the paltriness, the tawdriness of the material. Do you understand,” my father asked, “the profound meaning of that weakness, that passion for gaudy tissue-paper, papier-mâ ché, coloured lacquer, straw, and sawdust? It is,” he said with a pained smile, “our love for matter as such, for its downiness and porousness, its unique, mystical consistency. Demiurgus, that renowned master and artist, hides it away, causes it to vanish behind life’s make-believe. We, to the contrary, love its abrasiveness, its unruliness, its rag doll ungainliness. Behind each gesture, each movement, we like to see its exertion, its torpor, its sweet ursinality.”

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“A Treatise on Mannequins” http://www.schulzian.net/translation/shops/treatise1.htm <br class="br">His father, Creativity

“Have you ever noticed flocks of swallows flying past between the lines of certain books, whole verses of trembling, pointed swallows? One must interpret the flights of those birds…”

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“Spring” http://www.schulzian.net/translation/sanatorium/spring01.htm <br class="br">His father, Books

“But even further from the light were the cats. Their perfection was alarming. Wrapped up in the precision and meticulousness of their bodies, they knew neither deviation nor error. They sank for a moment, far into themselves, to the bottom of their being; they froze in their soft fur and grew menacingly and ceremoniously serious, and their eyes grew as round as moons, soaking up the view into their fiery craters. But a moment later, cast out to the edge, to the surface, they yawned in their nihility, disappointed and without illusions.”

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“The Brilliant Epoch” http://www.schulzian.net/translation/sanatorium/epoch1.htm <br class="br">His father, Living things

“Autumn! Autumn! The Alexandrine epoch of the year, gathering into its enormous libraries all the sterile wisdom of the three hundred and sixty-five days of the solar cycle! Oh, those aged mornings, as yellow as parchment, sweet with wisdom, like late evenings. Oh, those cunningly smiling mornings, like shrewd palimpsests, many-layered like old, yellowed books. Oh, the autumnal day, that old jester-librarian clambering up ladders in his slipped-down dressing gown, sampling the preserves of all ages and cultures!”

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“The Second Autumn” http://www.schulzian.net/translation/sanatorium/second_autumn.htm <br class="br">His father, The seasons

“On those shoulders of the garden, August’s unkempt and harridan luxuriance had expanded into silent hollows of enormous burdocks, holding sway with their flaps of shaggy, leafy tin plate, straggling tongues of fleshy green. Those distended rag dolls of burdocks bulged there like peasant women sitting around half-devoured by their own crazy skirts.”

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“August” http://www.schulzian.net/translation/shops/august1.htm <br class="br">His father, Living things

“">“Sadly, Adela,” said Father, “you have never been able to comprehend matters of a higher order. Always and everywhere, you have thwarted my actions with your outbursts of mindless animosity. But today, clad in armour, I mock your tickling, by which you once drove one helpless to despair.””

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“My Father Joins the Fire Brigade” http://www.schulzian.net/translation/sanatorium/fire_brigade.htm <br class="br">His father, Adela (the domestic servant)

“We are at the very bottom, at the dark foundations—we are with the Mothers. Here are endless infernos, those hopeless Ossianic expanses, those lamentable Nibelungs. Here are the great incubators of stories, storyteller factories, misty kilns of fables and fairytales.”

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“Spring” http://www.schulzian.net/translation/sanatorium/spring01.htm <br class="br">His father, Creativity

“Adela’s outstretched slipper shook slightly and shone like a snake’s tongue.”

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“A Treatise on Mannequins” http://www.schulzian.net/translation/shops/treatise1.htm <br class="br">His father, Adela (the domestic servant)

“I call it simply the Book, with no qualifications or epithets, and in this abstinence and restraint there is a helpless sigh, silent capitulation to the immeasurableness of the transcendent; for no word, no allusion, could glisten, scent the air, or drift with such a shudder of terror, with any inkling of that unnameable thing, the very first taste of which, on the tip of the tongue, surpasses the capacity of our rapture.”

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“The Book” http://www.schulzian.net/translation/sanatorium/book1.htm <br class="br">His father, Books

“Only now did the scales fall from my eyes. For how great is the force of credulity, how powerful the suggestion of terror! Such incomprehension! But this was a man! A chained-up man, whom I, by incomprehensible means, in a simplifying, metaphorical, and comprehensive elision, had taken for a dog.”

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“The Sanatorium at the Sign of the Hourglass” http://www.schulzian.net/translation/sanatorium/sanatorium1.htm <br class="br">His father, Living things

“Has our reader ever heard about the parallel strands of time, in two-track time? Yes, such branch stretches of time do exist, a little illegal, to be sure, and problematic, but when carrying such contraband as ours, such supernumerary, unclassifiable events, one cannot be too particular. And so, at some point in our story, we shall attempt to take such a branch turning, a siding, and shunt this illegal history into it.”

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“The Brilliant Epoch” http://www.schulzian.net/translation/sanatorium/epoch1.htm <br class="br">His father, Time

“It is worth noting how, in coming into contact with that unusual man, all things withdrew, as it were, to the root of their being, rebuilt their phenomenon down to its metaphysical core. They returned to their primordial idea, only to betray it at that point and lurch into those dubious, daring, and equivocal regions which I shall here succinctly call, the Regions of the Great Heresy.”

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“Mannequins” http://www.schulzian.net/translation/shops/mannequins.htm <br class="br">His father

“Only today do I understand the lonely heroism with which he gave single-handed battle against the boundless element of boredom numbing the town. Bereft of all support, without acknowledgement on our part, that astonishing man defended the lost cause of poetry. He was a wondrous mill, into whose hoppers the bran of the empty hours was poured, bursting into bloom in its mechanism with all of the colours and aromas of oriental spices.”

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“Mannequins” http://www.schulzian.net/translation/shops/mannequins.htm <br class="br">His father

“For ordinary books are like meteors; each has its moment, that instant when it flies shrieking into the air, like a phoenix, all of its pages ablaze. For that moment, that single instant, we love them; although they are mere ashes by then. Sometimes, late at night, we wander in bitter resignation through their congealed pages, whilst they go on insisting, with their wooden clattering, like a rosary, on their dead formulæ.”

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“The Book” http://www.schulzian.net/translation/sanatorium/book1.htm <br class="br">His father, Books

“Ah! And in writing down these stories of mine, arranging these tales of my father in the used up margin of its text, do I not yield to the secret hope that, someday, they will strike root imperceptibly between the faded leaves of that most magnificent, scattering book; that they will fall into the great rustle of its pages, which will enfold them?”

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“A Night of the High Season” http://www.schulzian.net/translation/shops/night.htm <br class="br">His father, Books

“Mother held no influence over [my father]; though he bestowed much reverence and attention upon Adela. When she swept his chamber, it was to him a great and momentous ceremony, one that he never omitted to witness, following Adela’s every movement with a mixture of fear and a shudder of delight. He ascribed to her every action some deeper, symbolic meaning, and when the girl pushed a long-handled brush across the floor, with youthful and bold thrusts, it was almost beyond his endurance.”

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“The Birds” http://www.schulzian.net/translation/shops/birds.htm <br class="br">His father, Adela (the domestic servant)

“Ah, life, young and fragile life, sent forth from the dependable darkness, from the snug warmth of the maternal womb into a vast, unfamiliar and illuminated world! How it flinches and draws back, filled with aversion and discouragement! How it hesitates to accept the venture proposed to it!”

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“Nimrod” http://www.schulzian.net/translation/shops/nimrod.htm <br class="br">His father, Living things

“I have never seen the Old Testament prophets, but at the sight of that man floored by divine anger, widely straddling his enormous porcelain urinal and shielded by the tornado of his arms, a cloud of desperate contortions, above which his voice rose still higher, alien and hard—I came to understand the divine anger of holy men.”

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“A Visitation” http://www.schulzian.net/translation/shops/visitation1.htm <br class="br">His father

“An infernal storm-cloud of feathers, wings, and screeches flew up, in the midst of which, Adela, looking like a furious mænad, half-obscured by the spinning of her thyrsus, danced a dance of destruction.”

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“The Birds” http://www.schulzian.net/translation/shops/birds.htm <br class="br">His father, Adela (the domestic servant)

“Too long,” said my father, “have we lived under the terror of the matchless perfection of the Demiurge. Too long has the perfection of his handiwork paralysed our own creativity. We do not wish to compete with him. We have no ambition to rival him. We wish merely to be creators in our own, lower sphere. We crave creativity for ourselves. We crave the joy of creation. In a word, we crave Demiurgy.”

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“A Treatise on Mannequins” http://www.schulzian.net/translation/shops/treatise1.htm <br class="br">His father, Creativity

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