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Quote by Mircea Eliade

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Noaptea de Sânziene

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Author

Mircea Eliade
Mircea Eliade

Mircea Eliade was a Romanian historian of religion and a prominent figure in the study of comparative religion. Born on March 13, 1907, in Bucharest, Romania, he passed away on April 22, 1986. His research focused on the history of religions, with a particular interest in the role of myth and ritual in human societies. more

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“Chodziłam po domu i mamrotałam coś do siebie. Kiedy człowiek jest starszy, takie zajęcie sprawia przyjemność. Rozprawiasz się, z kim chcesz, wygłaszasz repliki, które nie przyszły ci do głowy w danej chwili, uśmiechasz się na miłe wspomnienie, odtwarzasz rejestr zdarzeń, ilekroć masz na to ochotę, żeby zrozumieć, dlaczego sprawy potoczyły się tak, a nie inaczej. Całe twoje życie jest tam, z tobą, w tym samym pokoju. Twoje plany są raczej planami z przeszłości niż planami na przyszłość.”

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“When daylight lasts until 10pm because of the time change, and the traffic noise has died down, I have the illusion that all I’d need to do is return to those faraway neighborhoods to find the people I’ve lost, who had never left [...] Colette is leaning against the door of a private townhouse, hands in the pockets of her raincoat. Every time I look at that picture, it hurts. It’s like in the morning when you try to recall your dream from the night before, but all that’s left are scraps that dissolve before you can put them together. I knew that woman in another life and I’m doing my best to remember. Maybe someday I’ll manage to break through that layer of silence and amnesia.”

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“Wszyscyśmy się wymieszali, nasza krew się zmieszała. W dowodzie ja i dzieci mamy napisane „Rosjanie”, chociaż nie jesteśmy Rosjanami. Jesteśmy obywatelami radzieckimi! Ale nie ma kraju, w którym się urodziłam. Nie ma ani miejsca, o którym mówiliśmy „ojczyzna”, ani tamtych czasów, które też były naszą ojczyzną.”

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“A Second Childhood.” When all my days are ending And I have no song to sing, I think that I shall not be too old To stare at everything; As I stared once at a nursery door Or a tall tree and a swing. Wherein God’s ponderous mercy hangs On all my sins and me, Because He does not take away The terror from the tree And stones still shine along the road That are and cannot be. Men grow too old for love, my love, Men grow too old for wine, But I shall not grow too old to see Unearthly daylight shine, Changing my chamber’s dust to snow Till I doubt if it be mine. Behold, the crowning mercies melt, The first surprises stay; And in my dross is dropped a gift For which I dare not pray: That a man grow used to grief and joy But not to night and day. Men grow too old for love, my love, Men grow too old for lies; But I shall not grow too old to see Enormous night arise, A cloud that is larger than the world And a monster made of eyes. Nor am I worthy to unloose The latchet of my shoe; Or shake the dust from off my feet Or the staff that bears me through On ground that is too good to last, Too solid to be true. Men grow too old to woo, my love, Men grow too old to wed; But I shall not grow too old to see Hung crazily overhead Incredible rafters when I wake And I find that I am not dead. A thrill of thunder in my hair: Though blackening clouds be plain, Still I am stung and startled By the first drop of the rain: Romance and pride and passion pass And these are what remain. Strange crawling carpets of the grass, Wide windows of the sky; So in this perilous grace of God With all my sins go I: And things grow new though I grow old, Though I grow old and die.”

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