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Romain Gary

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“She was leaning over him, with a slight smile that was victorious over everything: victorious over her sickness, over the incandescent air, over her exhaustion, the dust, the stench, the merciless heat. Lying flat under the bush, his eyes blood- shot and his nose bleeding. Fields told himself that he would particularly have liked to inspire such love and devotion in a German he, the son of parents who had been gassed by the Germans at Auschwitz: it would have proved that to be a man was after all not hopeless. To fall in love with a German girl, he a Jew, that would show the Germans how he felt about it. But perhaps it was merely lust.”

“You’re right. One has to be mad. [...] Do you remember about the prehistoric reptile, the an- cestor of man, the first to emerge from the mud in early Paleozoic times, a milliard years ago, who set out to live in the air and to breathe, even though he had no lungs? [...] Well, he was mad too. Absolutely bats. That’s why he tried. He’s the ancestor of us all, and we shouldn’t forget it. But for him we wouldn’t be here. He was as crazy as they come. We too have got to try. That's what progress is. By trying like him, perhaps we’ll wind up with the necessary organs, the organ of dignity, of decency, or of fraternity.”

“Islam calls that ’the roots of heaven.’ and to the Mexican Indians it is the 'tree of life' — the thing that makes both of them fall on their knees and raise their eyes and beat their tormented breasts. A need for protection and company, from which obstinate people like Morel try to escape by means of petitions, fighting committees, by trying to take the protection of species in their own hands. Our needs for justice, for freedom and dignity— are roots of heaven that are deeply embedded in our hearts, but of heaven itself men know nothing but the gripping roots ...”

“Every official Organization for the Defense of Fauna and Flora had blacklisted him: his 'methods' were deplored and he was reproached also with having often been mixed up in political struggles. And that was true. The roots were innumerable, infinite in their variety and beauty, and some of them were deeply implanted in the human soul — a ceaseless tormented aspiration, a need for infinity, a thirst, a presentiment, a limitless expectation: liberty, equality, fraternity, dignity...”

“Peer Qvist, grasping the Bible in his hands and reaffirming to the Court his determination to carry on his defense of the whole infinite variety of roots which Heaven had planted in the earth and also in the depths of the human soul — roots which gripped them like a premonition and a longing, a tortured aspiration, a craving for justice, for dignity, freedom and love.”

“The dominant strain of the twentieth century, whether emanating from Marx or Freud, has been self-awareness; we have lost the art of forgetting ourselves. Which means we have little chance of being happy, since so much of happiness consists of inner peace; of playing ostrich, in fact. To say nothing of the fact that all this psychological self-consciousness is rather vulgar...”

“You see, if I simply told them that they're disgusting, that it's time to change, to respect nature at long last, to leave a margin of humanity in which there would be room even for all elephants in Africa, that wouldn't worry them much. They’d shrug their shoulders and say that I’m a visionary, a fanatic, just about fit to be locked up. So one’s got to outwit them. That’s why I’m quite willing to let them think that the elephants are only a pretext, a symbol, and that what’s underneath it is a terroristic movement for African independence, and that the defense of the elephants is merely a method of protest against the exploitation of Africa’s natural wealth by white men. That — there’s no doubt about it — has a good chance of waking them up, alarming them, making them do something, making them take me seriously; and the cleverest, most astute thing to do is obviously to deprive us of the pretext — that is to say, to ban elephant hunting completely.”

“It’s plain enough. But he’ll never be convinced. I’ve had long experience of this. They’ll explain to you that national independence is much more important than individual rights. In Finland, when I was defending the forests, the Russian officials kept explaining to me patiently that pulp for making paper is after all more important than the trees. They understood only when there were almost no forests left. And the whalers kept explaining to me that whale oil was needed on the market and was much more important than whales. It goes on and on.”

“من یه رفیقی دارم، اسمش باگ مورنه.-باید یه روز باش آشنا بشین- می گه یک جنتلمن کسی است که راه خودش را کج نکنه تا یک چاقو توی پشت کسی که اصلا نمی شناسه و کاری هم بش نکرده فرو کنه.”

“...ჩვენს საზოგადოებას წარსულის ოცნებების განხორციელებამ ქანცი გაუწყვიტა. როცა ამერიკელები მთვარეზე გაფრინდნენ, ერთი ყვირილი ატყდა, ახალი ეპოქა იწყებაო. მაგრამ ასე არ იყო: ეპოქა მთავრდებოდა. ჟიულ ვერნის ოცნების განსახორციელებლად გაისარჯნენ - მეცხრამეტე საუკუნის ოცნების... მეოცე საუკუნე ოცდამეერთესთვის არ მომზადებულა - მეცხრამეტის განხორციელებამ ძალა გამოაცალა...”

“არაფერი ისე არ ამხნევებს ადამიანს, როგორც საკუთარი თავისთვის იმის დამტკიცება, რომ ნებისყოფა აქვს, რთული გადაწყვეტილების მიღება და შესრულება შეუძლია”

“Not that I would describe fidelity as an exclusive contract, but rather a mutual devotion within shared assumptions. [...] She was greatly distressed, clearly more distressed than my condition warranted, and explained to me that when she was called and told of my accident she had been on the point of going to bed with a friend of mine. She left without a word to come to my side. That is what I mean by fidelity: putting love before pleasure.”

“برای بارور شدن مردان بزرگ «کودِ تاریخ» لازم است. گلهای عجیب و غریبی که به وجود می آورد، مثل گاندی، ناپلئون. اینها همه از اعماق کثافت بیرون می آن، از ته بیست قرن چرک و خون و کود تاریخ سر بلند می کنن”

“باران می آمد و روی شیروانی ترانه می نواخت: ترانه ای که اگه آدم اون رو شب، در امنِ آغوش او گوش کنه زیباترین ترانۀ دنیاست. هر قدر باد شدیدتر باشه و بارون تند تر بیاد بازوهاش محکمتر دورت فشرده میشه و تو توی بغلش راحت تری و دیگه از هیچ چیز نمی ترسی. دست کم این احساس منه. تمام عمرم صدای بارون روی شیروانی رو تنها شنیدم. بارون دوست نداره کسی تنها ترانه اش رو گوش بده. من ناکامیش رو خوب حس می کنم”

“Mon général,” Mathieu said quietly, “ever since Greek mythology, Prometheus, Sisyphus, and then Faust, and all the rest— not forgetting, of course, The Sorcerer’s Apprentice and other fables— everything, including Oedipus and atom, everything, has always begun as a poetic license, as a . . . metaphor and then invariably it became a hard, down-to-earth reality. The whole purpose of science, indeed, seems to be a validation of metaphors. Sodom and Gomorrah, materialistic West and materialistic East, all the parables and fables . . . as if all the metaphors were pointing to some historical and scientific truth. Mankind told itself everything about itself almost from the start, but it never believed it. If it comes to perish one day, it will be through sheer disbelief . . .”

“J'ai connu et je connais encore, dans ma vie, des bonheurs inouïs. Depuis mon enfance, par exemple, j'ai toujours aimé les concombres salés, pas les cornichons, mais les concombres, les vrais, les seuls et uniques, ceux qu'on appelle concombres à la russe. J'en ai toujours trouvé partout. Souvent, je m'en achète une livre, je m'installe quelque part au soleil, au bord de la mer, ou n'importe où, sur un trottoir ou sur un banc, je mords dans mon concombre et me voilà complètement heureux. Je reste là, au soleil, le cœur apaisé, en regardant les choses et les hommes d'un œil amical et je sais que la vie vaut vraiment la peine d'être vécue, que le bonheur est accessible, qu'il suffit simplement de trouver sa vocation profonde, et de se donner à ce qu'on aime avec un abandon total de soi.”

“حتی در ترانه های شکسپیر هم اثری از اُمّید نیست، چون در آن زمان سیفیلیس بیداد می کرد. اندوه عمیق نهفته در ترانه های شکسپیر از آنجاست که در آن روزها «عشق» همیشه با سیفیلیس متداعی بود. هفتاد درصد مردم به آن مبتلا بودند. زنگ عمیق اشعار عاشقانه به همین دلیل بود. چون عاقبتش دیوانگی بود یا کوری و هیچ علاجی هم نداشت. «عشق» چیزی بود فوق العاده «مهم»، درست مثل «مرگ» و «زندگی». امروز «عشق» اهمیت تراژیک خود را از دست داده است چون حسابش از «کوفت» جدا شده است”

“The mythology of the superstud...' my friend, the poet Henti Drouille, had written on a slip of paper before putting a bullet in his head. His mistress cried out to me: 'I don’t understand - I don’t understand! He was such a marvelous lover!' True enough, so marvelous that she had noticed nothing. I saw in my mind the virile mask of Jim Daley and seemed to hear his voice saying: 'She was probably the clitoral type. Sometimes, a man gets a break this way.' No, one has to know when to stop.”

“Could it have come for me, too, the time to 'save my honor'? How many men leave an 'overly demanding' woman to duck the moment of truth when their inadequacy can no longer be disguised? [...] 'She doesn’t excite me anymore' neatly passes the buck by leaving the woman feeling she is to blame, that she has somehow lost her attraction, her sex appeal, whatever; it is a ploy typical of the aging cock-of-the-walk whose strutting and preening are meant to conceal his private failings.”

“What I dread is the moment when her understanding turns to compassion, and her tenderness, her concern, come dangerously close to pity and maternal solicitude as to change the very nature of our lovemaking. “No, no, my darling, we mustn’t, you will strain yourself....” p41 ... Of course I should have spoken to her frankly, from the first. But to name the Devil is to conjure him up. And the moods of lovers are contagious. There is that hazardous balance between them where the misery of the one brings on the insecurity and anxiety of the other; things quickly go from bad to worse , until they can no longer speak about it and the silence grows like a wall between them.”

“What I dread is the moment when her understanding turns to compassion, and her tenderness, her concern, come dangerously close to pity and maternal solicitude as to change the very nature of our lovemaking. 'No, no, my darling, we mustn’t, you will strain yourself...' Of course I should have spoken to her frankly, from the first. But to name the Devil is to conjure him up. And the moods of lover are contagious. There is that hazardous balance between them where the misery of the one brings on the insecurity and anxiety of the other; things quickly go from bad to worse, until they can no longer speak about it and the silence grows like a wall between them.”

“You are far too well informed a man to pretend that you don’t know what little game you are playing. If you have presentiments of death, it is because of certain wishes. You desire to escape sexual impotence - impotence, in short - and you wish for death to save you from all that. It is one of the virility’s favorite ploys.”

“Also, for the man, there is still one more loophole. If, by the grace of God, she’s humble by nature and and ready to assume guilt, she might just think: ‘I don’t turn him on,’ or ‘He doesn’t love me any longer.’ And there it is, then understanding between the sexes, my friend. You can always blame it on her.”

“My body had become that of an old liar, and my most spontaneous transports had begun to end in calculated maneuverings and delayed deliveries. It was no longer a question of self-esteem or pride; when I thought of breaking up with her, it was not to avoid some sort of discomfiture: it was a question of authenticity. I loved Laura too much to drag myself along on crutches in the wake of our love.”