Or I sip it like a liqeur until the thought dissolves in me like alcohol, infusing brain and heart and coursing on through the veins to the root of each blood vessel.
BOHUMIL HRABALIt’s interesting how young poets think of death while old fogies think of girls.
More Bohumil Hrabal Quotes
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I pop a beautiful sentence into my mouth and suck it like a fruit drop.
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A symbol of the eternity that preceded human thought, a free fire, a gift from heaven, a living sign of the elements unnoticed by the world-weary pedestrian, a fire in the ditches of Prague warming the wanderer’s eye and soul.
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I expect them to tell me things about myself I don’t know.
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As I helped him up, I felt him shake all over, so I asked him to forgive me, without knowing what for, but that was my lot, asking forgiveness.
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It’s interesting how young poets think of death while old fogies think of girls.
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I can be by myself because I’m never lonely, I’m simply alone, living in my heavily populated solitude, a harum-scarum of infinity and eternity, and Infinity and Eternity seem to take a liking to the likes of me.
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Today’s Gypsies, who have lived in Prague for only two generations, light a ritual fire wherever they work, a nomads’ fire crackling only for the joy of it, a blaze of roughhewn wood like a child’s laugh.
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Because real thoughts come from outside and travel with us like the noodle soup we take to work; in other words, inquisitors burn books in vain.
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Because when I read, I don’t really read; I pop a beautiful sentence into my mouth and suck it like a fruit drop.
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If a book has anything to say, it burns with a quiet laugh, because any book worth its salt points up and out of itself.
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All streets, all squares, and all the people walking through them; I even had the feeling that I was a handsome young man.
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No book worth its salt is meant to put you to sleep, it’s meant to make you jump out of your bed in your underwear and run and beat the author’s brains out.
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And so everything I see in this world, it all moves backward and forward at the same time, like a black-smith’s bellows, like everything in my press, turning into its opposite at the command of the red and green buttons, and that’s what makes the world go round.
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I even asked forgiveness of myself for being what I was, what it was my nature to be.
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To spend our days betting on three-legged horses with beautiful names
BOHUMIL HRABAL