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Akce tohoto týdne:

George Orwell: balíček 5 elektronických knih (PDF+ePub)     za 183  110 Kč (-40%)

Kalendárium:

28.3.: Bohumil HrabalBohumil Hrabal
[28.3.1914-3.2.1997]
- 110. výročí narození
28.3.: Jan Amos KomenskýJan Amos Komenský
[28.3.1592-15.11.1670]
- 432. výročí narození
28.3.: Zdeněk SvěrákZdeněk Svěrák
[28.3.1936]
slaví 88. narozeniny
29.3.: Jo NesbøJo Nesbø
[29.3.1960]
slaví 64. narozeniny
29.3.: Jiří WolkerJiří Wolker
[29.3.1900-3.1.1924]
- 124. výročí narození
30.3.: Paul VerlainePaul Verlaine
[30.3.1844-8.1.1896]
- 180. výročí narození
30.3.: Karl MayKarl Friedrich May
[25.2.1842-30.3.1912]
- 112. výročí úmrtí
31.3.: Michal VieweghMichal Viewegh
[31.3.1962]
slaví 62. narozeniny
31.3.: Ota PavelOta Pavel
[2.7.1930-31.3.1973]
- 51. výročí úmrtí
1.4.: Nikolaj GogolNikolaj Vasiljevič Gogol (Николай Васильевич Гоголь)
[1.4.1809-4.3.1852]
- 215. výročí narození
1.4.: Milan KunderaMilan Kundera
[1.4.1929]
slaví 95. narozeniny
1.4.: François VillonFrançois Villon
[1.4.1431(19.4.1432?)-1463(1467?)]
- 593. výročí narození
1.4.: Edgar WallaceEdgar Horatio Edgar Wallace
[1.4.1875-10.2.1932]
- 149. výročí narození
2.4.: Hans Christian AndersenHans Christian Andersen
[2.4.1805-4.8.1875]
- 219. výročí narození
2.4.: Émile ZolaÉmile Zola
[2.4.1840-29.9.1902]
- 184. výročí narození
4.4.: Václav ČtvrtekVáclav Čtvrtek
[4.4.1911-6.11.1976]
- 113. výročí narození
4.4.: Jan DrdaJan Drda
[4.4.1915-28.11.1970]
- 109. výročí narození
5.4.: Vítězslav HálekVítězslav Hálek
[5.4.1835-8.10.1874]
- 189. výročí narození
5.4.: Allen GinsbergIrwin Allen Ginsberg
[3.6.1926-5.4.1997]
- 27. výročí úmrtí
6.4.: Isaac AsimovIsaac Asimov
[2.1.1920-6.4.1992]
- 32. výročí úmrtí
6.4.: Vítězslav NezvalVítězslav Nezval
[26.5.1900-6.4.1958]
- 66. výročí úmrtí
7.4.: Johannes M. SimmelJohannes Mario Simmel
[7.4.1924-1.1.2009]
- 100. výročí narození
7.4.: Jaroslav DurychJaroslav Durych
[2.12.1886-7.4.1962]
- 62. výročí úmrtí
8.4.: Jakub ArbesJakub Arbes
[12.6.1840-8.4.1914]
- 110. výročí úmrtí

Náhodná ukázka:

VIII

Quentin & Shreve Keep On Talking

Quentin and Shreve stared at one another ­glared rather ­their quiet regular breathing vaporizing faintly and steadily in the now tomblike air. There was something curious in the way they looked at one another, curious and quiet and profoundly intent, not at all as two young men might look at each other but almost as a youth and a very young girl might out of virginity itself­a sort of hushed and naked searching, each look burdened with youth’s immemorial obsession not with time’s dragging weight which the old live with but with its fluidity: the bright heels of all the lost moments of fifteen and sixteen....

They stared ­glared ­at one another. It was Shreve speaking, though save for the slight difference which the intervening degrees of latitude had inculcated in them (differences not in tone or pitch but of turns of phrase and usage of words), it might have been either of them and was in a sense both: both thinking as one, the voice which happened to be speaking the thought only the thinking become audible, vocal; the two of them creating between them, out of the rag-tag and bob-ends of old tales and talking, people who perhaps had never existed at all anywhere, who, shadows, were shadows not of flesh and blood which had lived and died but shadows in turn of what were (to one of them at least, to Shreve) shades too, quiet as the visible murmur of their vaporizing breath....

“And Bon didn’t know it,” Shreve said. “The old man didn’t move and this time Henry didn’t say ‘You lie,’ he said ‘It’s not true’ and the old man said, “Ask him. Ask Charles then’ and then Henry knew that that was what he meant himself when he told his father he lied, because what the old man said wasn’t just ‘He is your brother’ but ‘He has known all the time that he is yours and your sister’s brother.’ But Bon didn’t know. Listen, dont you remember how your father said it, that not one time did he­the old guy, the demon--ever seem to wonder how the other wife managed to find him, track him down, had never once seemed to wonder what she might have been doing all that time, the thirty years since that day when he paid his bill with her and got it receipted, so he thought, and saw with his own eyes that it was (so he thought) destroyed, torn up and thrown to the wind; never once wondered about this but only that she had done it, could have and would have wanted to track him down? So it wasn’t her that told Bon. She wouldn’t have wanted to, maybe for the reason that she know he ­the demo n­would believe she had. Or maybe she didn’t get around to telling him. Maybe she just never thought that there could be anyone as close to her as a lone child out of her own body who would have to be told how she had been scorned and suffered. Or maybe she was already telling it before he was big enough to understand what was being told him she had told it so much and so hard that the words didn’t make sense to her anymore wither because they didn’t have to make sense to her, and so she had got to the point where when she thought she was saying it she was quiet, and when she thought she was quit it was just the hate and the fury and the unsleeping and the unforgetting. Or maybe she didn’t intend for him to know it then. Maybe she was grooming him for that hour and moment which she couldn’t foresee but that she knew would arrive some day because it would have to arrive or else she would have to do like the Aunt Rosa and deny that she had ever breathed ­the moment when he (Bon) would stand side by side (not face to face) with his father where fate or luck or justice or whatever she called it could do the rest (and it did, better than she could have invented or hoped or even dreamed, and your father said how being a woman she probably wasn’t even surprised)­grooming him herself, bringing him on by hand herself, washing and feeding and putting him to bed and giving him the candy and the toys and the other child fun and diversion and needs in measured doses like medicine with her own hand: not because she had to, who could have hired a dozen or bought a hundred to do it for her with the money, the jack that he (the demon) had voluntarily surrendered, repudiated to balance his moral ledger: but like the millionaire who could have a hundred hostlers and handlers but who has just the one horse, the one maiden, the one moment, the one matching of heart and muscle and will with the one instant: and himself (the millionaire) patient in the overalls and the sweat and the stable muck, and the mother bringing him along to the moment when she would say ‘He is your father. He cast you and me aside and denied you his name. Now go.’ and then sit down and let God finish it: pistol or knife or rack; destruction or grief or anguish: God to call the shot or turn the wheel. Jesus, you can almost see him: a little boy already come to learn, to expect, before he could remember having learned his own name or the name of the town where he lived or how to say either of them, that every so often he would be snatched up from playing and held, gripped between the two hands fierce with (what passed at least with him for it) love, against the two fierce rigid knees, the face that he remembered since before remembering began as supervising all the animal joys of palate and stomach and entrails, of warmth and pleasure and security, swooping down at him in a kind of blazing immobility: he taking the interruption as a matter of course, as just another natural phenomenon of existence; the face filled with furious and almost unbearable unforgiving almost like fever (not bitterness and depair: just implacable will for revenge) as just another manifestation of mammalian love--and he not knowing what in hell it was all about. He would be too young to curry any connected fact out of the fury and hate and the tumbling speed; not comprehending or caring: just curious, creating for himself (without help since who to help him) his own notion of that Porto Rico or Haiti or wherever it was he understood vaguely that he had come frrom, like orthodox children do of Heaven or the cabbage patch or wherever it was that they came from, except that his was different in that you were not supposed (your mother didn’t intend to, anyway) to ever go back there (and maybe when you got as old as she was you would be horrified too, every time you found hidden in your thoughts anything that just smelled or tasted like it might be a wish to go back there). You were not supposed to know when and why you left but only that you had escaped, that whatever power had created the place for you to hate it had likewise got you away from the place so you could hate it good and never forgive it in quiet and monotony (though not exactly in what you would call peace); that you were to thank God you didn’t remember anything about it yet at the same time you were not to, maybe dared not to, ever forget it­he not even knowing maybe that he took it for granted that all kids didn’t have fathers too and that getting snatched every day or so from whatever harmless pursuit in which you were not bothering anybody or even thinking about them, by someone becuase that someone was bigger than you, stronger than you, and being held for a minute or five minutes under a kind of busted water pipe of incomprehensible fury and fierce yearning and vindictiveness and jealous rage was part of childhood which all mothers of children had received in turn from their mothers and from their mothers in turn from that Porto Rico or Haiti or wherever it was we all came from but none of us ever lived in. So that when he grew up and had children he would have to pass it on too (and maybe deciding then and there that it was too much trouble and bother and that he would not have any children or at least hoped he would not) and hence no man had a father, no one personal Porto Rico or Haiti, but all mother faces which ever bred swooping down at those almost calculable moments out of some obscure ancient general affronting and outraging which the actual living articulate meat had not even suffered but merely inherited; all boy flesh that walked and breathed stemming from that one ambiguous eluded dark fatherhead and so brothered perennial and ubiquitous everywhere under the sun----”

(...)

 

(William Faulkner, Absalom, Absalom!)

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