Amos Oz

“When I was little, my ambition was to grow up to be a book. Not a writer. People can be killed like ants. Writers are not hard to kill either. But not books: however systematically you try to destroy them, there is always a chance that a copy will survive and continue to enjoy a shelf-life in some corner on an out-of-the-way library somehwere in Reykjavik, Valladolid or Vancouver.”

“Et si on faisait une trêve ? S'il montait le [le Premier ministre] réconforter et le distraire un peu de sa solitude ? Il pourrait passer la nuit à lui parler, d'homme à homme. Il se garderait de toute polémique, il ne lui reprocherait rien, ne le culpabiliserait pas mais se contenterait de deviser avec lui, comme avec un ami cher dont on s'efforce, gentiment, de dessiller les yeux, un ami que de mauvaises gens auraient induit en erreur sur une affaire épineuse, apparemment insoluble mais qui en réalité avait une solution simple, logique, équitable, que les détracteurs les plus acharnés devraient pouvoir accepter après une brève démonstration de son bien-fondé, dans une atmosphère cordiale et détendue. A condition évidemment de ne pas se buter, de ne pas s'abriter derrière un mur de grossiers mensonges, d'ouvrir les oreilles, d'envisager l'éventail des possibilités jusque-là résolument écartées, non par malice mais à cause de préjugés, de jugements inflexibles ou de craintes profondément enracinées. (p. 299)”

“Il faut regarder la souffrance en face. S'il était Premier ministre, il obligerait les membres du gouvernement à passer une semaine dans une base de réservistes de Gaza ou d'Hébron, ou dans une maison d'arrêt du Néguev, ou à séjourner au moins deux jours dans le service psychiatrique d'un hôpital perdu ou à se tenir en embuscade une nuit entière, du coucher du soleil à l'aube, dans la boue et la pluie, en hiver, dans le périmètre de sécurité à la frontière libanaise. Ou encore à vivre dans l'intimité d'Eytan et de Warhaftig, dans cet enfer de l'avortement noyé sous les accords de piano et de violoncelle qui s'échappaient de l'étage supérieur. (p. 283)”

“La vérité est que chacun d'entre nous sait parfaitement ce que signifie la pitié et quel en est le mode d'emploi : nous l'avons tous implorée un jour ou l'autre. Mais au moment où il nous faut ouvrir la porte de la miséricorde, nous faisons comme si nous en avions perdu la clé, comme si avoir un peu de coeur revenait à humilier son prochain ou à manifester une sensiblerie démodée. (p.283)”

“Cat de mult seamana viata din zilele noastre cu un bal mizerabil: un pic de lumina, un pic de muzica, putin dans, apoi intuneric. Priveste. Luminile au fost deja stinse, resturile de mancare au fost deja aruncate cainilor.”

“Clopotele bisericilor si ale manastirilor au inceput acum sa bata, de departe si de aproape, dar si ele sunt undeva, inauntrul tacerii.”

“Niemand weiß nix über den andern. Und am wenigstens weiß man's bei der Liebe. Liebe sei nach ihrer Meinung ein total destruktiver Zustand: Zwei Fremde, die einander plötzlich sehen, oder nicht wirklich sehen, riechen, und in Nullkommanix stärker verbunden sind als Bruder und Schwester. Fangen an, miteinander im selben Bett zu schlafen, obwohl sie nicht zur selben Familie gehören. Oft sind das zwei, die nicht Freunde, nicht Bekannte, nicht Kumpels sind, bloß ineinander verknallt, und wenn die ganze Welt untergeht. Und guck dir doch an, was für ein Desaster. An Liebe sterben vielleicht mehr als an Drogen. Vielleicht müßte man auch dafür eine Entziehungskur schaffen.”

“She had not wanted him to but had let him have his way because ever since she was a child she had generally yielded before anyone with strong willpower, especially if it was a man, not because she was naturally submissive, but because strong male willpower gave her a feeling of safety and trust, together with acceptance and a desire to give in.”

“He had the feeling that he must make a decision, and though he was used to making many decisions every day, this time he was beset with uncertainty; in fact he had no idea what was being asked of him”

“Faith, coming from the lack of faith: as much as the faith in oneself is demolished, as much the intoxicating faith in the salvation becomes strong and the desperate need to be save grows. The savior is that much great, as you’re small, insignificant and unworthy. Anri Begrson writes: “It’s not true that faith can move mountains. On the contrary, the main thing in faith is the ability not to notice anything, even the moving of the mountain in front of you. It’s like a hermetic screen, fully impregnable to the facts.”

“Een beetje medelijden en een beetje ruimhartigheid, zei ik, ik zei geen liefde: in universele liefde geloof ik niet zo. Liefde van iedereen voor iedereen, dat kunnen we misschien beter overlaten aan Jezus. Liefde is immers iets heel anders. Het lijkt helemaal niet op ruimhartigheid en evenmin op mededogen. Integendeel. Liefde is een eigenaardig mengsel van twee tegengestelde dingen, een mengsel van het ergste egoïsme en de meest volmaakte toewijding. Een paradox! Bovendien, liefde, de hele wereld praat voortdurend maar over liefde, liefde, maar liefde kies je niet, je raakt ermee besmet, als een ziekte. Liefde overvalt je, als een ramp. Dus wat kies je dan wel? Waartussen moet een mens bijna elk moment kiezen? Óf ruimhartigheid, óf kwaadaardigheid.”

“Era talvez meu hábito ‘profissional’ de colocar-me no lugar, ou na pele, dos outros. Isso não significa que sempre justifico esses outros, mas que tenho a capacidade de enxergar seus pontos de vista p. 95.”

“Nunca escrevi uma história ou romance com o intuito de simplesmente enviar uma mensagem política direta, tal como ‘parem de construir assentamentos nos territórios ocupados’ ou ‘reconheçam o direito dos palestinos a Jerusalém Oriental’. Nunca escrevo um romance alegórico a fim de dizer a meu povo ou a meu governo para fazer isso ou aquilo. Para isso, utilizo meus artigos. Se há uma mensagem metapolítica em meus romances, é sempre uma mensagem, de uma maneira ou de outra, de um compromisso, compromisso doloroso, e da necessidade de escolher a vida em lugar da morte, a imperfeição da vida em lugar das perfeições da morte gloriosa. p. 98/9.”

“Precisamos de um senso de justiça, mas precisamos também de senso comum, de imaginação, de uma capacidade profunda de imaginar o outro, às vezes de nos colocarmos na pele do outro. Precisamos da capacidade racional de nos comprometer e, às vezes, de fazer sacrifícios e concessões. p. 53”

“… that sour blend of loneliness and lust for recognition, shyness and extravagance, deep insecurity and self-intoxicated egomania, that drives poets and writers out of their rooms to seek each other out, to rub shoulders with one another, bully, joke, condescend, feel each other, lay a hand on a shoulder or an arm round a waist, to chat and argue with little nudges, to spy a little, sniff out what is cooking in other pots, flatter, disagree, collude, be right, take offence, apologise, make amends, avoid each other, and seek each other’s company again.”

“There are lots of women who are attracted to tyrannical men. Like moths to a flame. And there are some women who do not need a hero or even a stormy lover but a friend. Just remember that when you grow up. Steer clear of the tryant lovers, and try to locate the ones who are looking for a man as a friend, not because they are feeling empty themselves but because they enjoy making you full too. And remember that friendship between a woman and a man is something much more precious and rare than love: love is actually something quite gross and even clumsy compared to friendship. Friendship includes a measure of sensitivity, attentiveness, generosity, and a finely tuned sense of moderation.”

“If you steal from one book you are condemned as a plagiarist, but if you steal from ten books you are considered a scholar, and if you steal from thirty or forty books, a distinguished scholar.”

“Every single pleasure I can imagine or have experienced is more delightful, more of a pleasure, if you take it in small sips, if you take your time. Reading is not an exception.”

“Веднъж, бях на седем-осем, с мама отивахме до магазина за обувки или до поликлиниката, не помня точно, но бяхме седнали на последната седалка на автобуса, и тя ми каза, че с годините книгите се променят точно като хората, н с тази разлика, че хората могат да те изоставят, ако вече нямат полза, интерес или поне някакво чувство към теб, но книгите никога няма да те напуснат. По-скоро ти ги забравяш за няколко години или завинаги, но те никога няма да ти обърнат гръб, дори и да си ги предал, ще чакат тихо и скромно на някой рафт, докато се върнеш при тях. Ще чакат и десет години, няма да се оплакват. И една нощ, когато неочаквано ти се прииска някоя книга, дори и в три през нощта, дори и да си я бил зарязал отдавна, да си я изтрил от съзнанието си, бъди сигурен, че тя няма да те разочарова, ще слезе от рафта и ще бъде с теб в този момент на нужда. Няма да се прави на обидена, да търси претекст да ти откаже, да се пита, дали си заслужава, дали ти заслужаваш, дали все още си подхождате, а ще дойде веднага щом я потърсиш.Книгата никога няма да те разочарова".”

“In a short story by Chekhov or a novel by Balzac he found mysteries which, so far as he was aware, did not exist in any spy thriller. 35”

“A conflict begins and ends in the hearts and minds of people, not in the hilltops.”