Quotessence
Home / Quotes / Quote by Thiago Sardenberg

Quote by Thiago Sardenberg

“Em Drácula, o vampiro, personificação da perversidade e do mal, era repelido pelo símbolo religioso em si, que se tornava uma arma que emanava poder; em ‘Salem, o símbolo somente tinha poder na medida em que a pessoa que o empunhasse houvesse nele depositado uma fé inabalável; já em Eu Sou a Lenda, por outro lado, não importava a fé de quem empunhava o símbolo, e sim, o entendimento do vampiro de seu lugar perante a ele. Entende-se, portanto — embora a narrativa não aprofunde o tema —, que cruzes ou hóstias não teriam qualquer tipo de efeito sobre vampiros que haviam sido ateus, por exemplo. A internalização do ódio parecia residir no âmago do processo.”

Quote by Thiago Sardenberg

Work

Author

Thiago Sardenberg

Browse famous quotes and profile details for Thiago Sardenberg. more

You May Also Like

“Two weeks ago my mountain of mail delivered forth a pipsqueak mouse of a letter from a well-known publishing house that wanted to reprint my story “The Fog Horn” in a high school reader. In my story, I had described a lighthouse as hav­ing, late at night, an illumination coming from it that was a “God-Light.” Looking up at it from the view-point of any sea-creature one would have felt that one was in “the Presence.” The editors had deleted “God-Light” and “in the Presence.” Some five years back, the editors of yet another anthology for school readers put together a volume with some 400 (count ‘em) short stories in it. How do you cram 400 short stories by Twain, Irving, Poe, Maupassant and Bierce into one book? Simplicity itself. Skin, debone, demarrow, scarify, melt, render down and destroy. Every adjective that counted, every verb that moved, every metaphor that weighed more than a mosquito—out! Every simile that would have made a sub-moron’s mouth twitch—gone! Any aside that explained the two-bit philosophy of a first-rate writer—lost! Every story, slenderized, starved, bluepenciled, leeched and bled white, resembled every other story. Twain read like Poe read like Shakespeare read like Dostoevsky read like—in the finale—Edgar Guest. Every word of more than three syllables had been ra­zored. Every image that demanded so much as one instant’s attention—shot dead. Do you begin to get the damned and incredible picture? How did I react to all of the above? By “firing” the whole lot. By sending rejection slips to each and every one. By ticketing the assembly of idiots to the far reaches of hell.”

“The human psyche has two great sicknesses: the urge to carry vendetta across generations, and the tendency to fasten group labels on people rather than see them as individuals. Abrahamic religion mixes explosively with (and gives strong sanction to) both. Only the willfully blind could fail to implicate the divisive force of religion in most, if not all, of the violent enmities in the world today. Without a doubt it is the prime aggravator of the Middle East. Those of us who have for years politely concealed our contempt for the dangerous collective delusion of religion need to stand up and speak out. Things are different now. ‘All is changed, changed utterly.”

“Here's the problem. Here's what news used to be: information. That's what news is. Now, every article in the New York Times starts, no matter what it is, it starts with, "On a rocky road in Afghanistan..." It's like, three paragraphs 'til you get to "a bomb blew up something in Afghanistan." The bomb is the news, the beginning is the writing. Facts are what's important in news, but no one is interested in facts anymore. People are interested--and this I find astonishing--they're interested in other people's opinions. So, unbiased news, I don't think we'll have anymore, because no one seems to know what news is. They turn on the news and they watch people give their opinions. That's what they watch on TV, that's what they see on the Internet, that's what they participate in. Here's how I feel when someone on CNN says, "Here's our Twitter number whatever-you-call-it...we want to know what you think." And I think, "Really? I don't.”

“Alles wat leef en beef is vreemdelinge op hierdie blou kluit. Dieaarde verdra lewe, maar sy het dit nie gebaar nie. G’n wonder jy kan nie jou sit kry nie. G’n wonder jy voel nooit tuis nie. G’n wonder jy wil heeltyd uit- en wegvlieg. Styg maar op en bespied die wydtes: jy sal geen vaderland vind nie. Daar is spore in die sand en stories oor die spore en verder net verlange en wind. (Buys se woorde aan 'n vlieg)”