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.
BOHUMIL HRABALEleanor Roosevelt doesn’t ever do anything that is going to hurt her husband. She tries things out on him. She gets permission to do things.
More Bohumil Hrabal Quotes
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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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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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I expect them to tell me things about myself I don’t know.
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And I liked looking at myself in the mirror, watching myself in the shop windows as I strode along, and even when I touched my face, I felt no wrinkles at my mouth or forehead.
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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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To spend our days betting on three-legged horses with beautiful names
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He was a gentle and sensitive soul, and therefore had a short temper, which is why he went straight after everything with an ax.
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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 even asked forgiveness of myself for being what I was, what it was my nature to be.
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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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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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I pop a beautiful sentence into my mouth and suck it like a fruit drop.
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It’s interesting how young poets think of death while old fogies think of girls.
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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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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.
BOHUMIL HRABAL