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Quote by Max Frisch

“Das wirkliche Leben, meint er, sei ja so anders... Jedenfalls das seine, denkt er: da erkennt man keinen klaren Ablauf und keinen roten Faden, da zerrinnt es einfach, ohne Abschnitt und ohne Tat, die Leidenschaft zerrinnt in eine Stimmung, und auch die Entschlüsse sind wie Sand, der leise durch die Finger rinnt, immer wieder nimmt man eine neue Handvoll, und wenn man sie aufmacht, ist wieder nichts darin geblieben, man ist verzweifelt, und auch das zerrinnt, wie die Hoffnung und der Jubel und der Schmerz und alles, wie das ganze Leben.”

Quote by Max Frisch

Book:Antwort aus der Stille. Eine Erzählung aus den Bergen

Work

Antwort aus der Stille. Eine Erzählung aus den Bergen

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Author

Max Frisch

Max Frisch was a Swiss playwright and novelist, born on May 15, 1911, and died on April 4, 1991. Known for his unique narrative style and profound insights into modern society, Frisch is considered one of the most outstanding Swiss writers of the 20th century. more

“Mann und Frau wollen sich trennen. Keine seltene Geschichte. Ob es irgendwo eine ewige Statistik gibt, wie oft solche Trennungsversuche klappen und wie oft sie scheitern? Und woran es jeweils liegt? Gibt es irgendwo ein Register dieser Schmerzen? Führt da jemand Buch, damit nicht so ganz umsonst gelitten wird?”

Schmerz Trennung

Book:Die verschwundene Chefredakteurin

Source: Die verschwundene Chefredakteurin

“There’s a psychological mechanism, I’ve come to believe, that prevents most of us from imagining the moment of our own death. For if it were possible to imagine fully that instant of passing from consciousness to nonexistence, with all the attendant fear and humiliation of absolute helplessness, it would be very hard to live, as it would be unbearably obvious that death is inscribed in everything that constitutes life, that any moment of our existence is a breath away from being the last one. We would be continuously devastated by the magnitude of that inescapable moment, so our minds wisely refuse to consider it. Still, as we mature into mortality, we gingerly dip our horror-tingling toes in the void, hoping that the mind will somehow ease itself into dying, that God or some other soothing opiate will remain available as we venture deeper into the darkness of nonbeing. But how can you possibly ease yourself into the death of your child? For one thing, it is supposed to happen well after your own dissolution into nothingness. Your children are supposed to outlive you by several decades, in the course of which they’ll live their lives, happily devoid of the burden of your presence, eventually completing the same mortal trajectory as their parents: oblivion, denial, fear, the end. They’re supposed to handle their own mortality, and no help in that regard (other than forcing them to confront death by way of your dying) can come from you—death ain’t a science project. And even if you could imagine your child’s death, why would you?”

Death Death Of A Child Moment Of Death Imagining Death

Book:The Book of My Lives

Source: The Book of My Lives

“The scene [Bruegel's 'Landscape with the Fall of Icarus'] is filled with a vast field, and a cow and a farmer plowing. In the left-hand corner is a tiny ocean the size of a palm, and there, I can barely make it out, the two legs of a man who fell headlong into the sea. This is called the Fall of Icarus. Compared to everyday life, the fall of an idealist who flew too high with candle-wax wings is an unremarkable tragedy.”

Perspective Tragedy Idealism Hwang Sok Yong The Old Garden Pieter Bruegel The Fall Of Icarus

Book:The Old Garden

Source: The Old Garden