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Vacation is good for tiny little things that one's been meaning to do forever! In that spirit, here are three quotes from Bruno Schulz's The Street of Crocodiles that I've been wanting to share with you before getting rid of the book. Never mind context; I think they might be better without it.
On death:
Maria's time -- the time imprisoned in her soul -- had left her and -- terribly real -- filled the room, vociferous and hellish in the bright silence of the morning, rising from the noisy mill of the clock like a cloud of bad flour, powdery flour, the stupid flour of madmen.
On Tuesdays:
The half-light in the marketplace was now the color of golden smoke. For a moment it looked as if out of that smoke-colored honey, a most beautiful afternoon would unfold. But the happy moment passed, the amalgam of dawn withered, the swelling fermentation of the day, almost completed, receded again into a hapless grayness. We assembled again around the table, the shop assistants rubbed their hands, red from the cold, and the prose of their conversation suddenly revealed a full-grown day, a gray and empty Tuesday, a day without tradition and without a face.
On the life of a very young kitten:
The world began to set traps for him: the unknown and tantalizing taste of various foods, the square patch of morning sunlight on the floor in which it was so pleasant to rest, the movements of his own limbs, his own paws, his tail roguishly inviting him to play, the fondling of human hands which induced a certain playfulness, the gaiety that filled him with a need for completely new, violent and risky movements -- all this tricked and encouraged him to the acceptance of the experiment of life and to submission to it.
On death:
Maria's time -- the time imprisoned in her soul -- had left her and -- terribly real -- filled the room, vociferous and hellish in the bright silence of the morning, rising from the noisy mill of the clock like a cloud of bad flour, powdery flour, the stupid flour of madmen.
On Tuesdays:
The half-light in the marketplace was now the color of golden smoke. For a moment it looked as if out of that smoke-colored honey, a most beautiful afternoon would unfold. But the happy moment passed, the amalgam of dawn withered, the swelling fermentation of the day, almost completed, receded again into a hapless grayness. We assembled again around the table, the shop assistants rubbed their hands, red from the cold, and the prose of their conversation suddenly revealed a full-grown day, a gray and empty Tuesday, a day without tradition and without a face.
On the life of a very young kitten:
The world began to set traps for him: the unknown and tantalizing taste of various foods, the square patch of morning sunlight on the floor in which it was so pleasant to rest, the movements of his own limbs, his own paws, his tail roguishly inviting him to play, the fondling of human hands which induced a certain playfulness, the gaiety that filled him with a need for completely new, violent and risky movements -- all this tricked and encouraged him to the acceptance of the experiment of life and to submission to it.
