Quotes About Literature

The frontiers of a book are never clear-cut: beyond the title, the first lines, and the last full-stop, beyond its internal configuration and its autonomous form, it is caught up in a system of references to other books, other texts, other sentences: it is a node within a network.

marginile unei c?rÅ£i nu sunt niciodat? clar ÅŸi riguros trasate: dincolo de titlu, de primele rânduri ÅŸi de punctul final, mai presus de configuraÅ£ia sa intern? ÅŸi de forma care îi confer? autonomie, ea se afl? prins? într-un sistem de trimiteri la alte c?rÅ£i, la alte texte, la alte fraze: este un nod într-o reÅ£ea.

In short, the history of thought, of knowledge, of philosophy, of literature seems to be seeking, and discovering, more and more discontinuities, whereas history itself appears to be abandoning the interruption of events in favour of stable structures.

To distract myself from tiresome thoughts, I have only to resort to books; they easily draw my mind to themselves and away from other things.

only philosophy can go deep enough to show that literature goes still deeper than philosophy

Aquel que llegaba a interesarse por un libro se convertía inevitablemente en un esclavo de la lectura. Un libro te remitía a otro libro, un autor a otro autor, porque, en contra de lo que solía decirse, los libros nunca te resolvían problemas sino que te los creaban, de modo que la curiosidad del lector siempre quedaba insatisfecha. Y, al apelar a otros títulos, iniciabas una cadena que ya no podía concluir sino con la muerte.

About the only valid definition (of science fiction) that I'm willing to accept is this: all of modern, mainstream, and realistic fiction is simply a branch, a category, or a subset of science fiction.

It's a fiendishly difficult thing to do because paper that has been written on doesn't burn easily.

Manuscripts do not burn.

Gel peÅŸimden, ey okur! Kim söyledi sana yeryüzünde gerçek, sad?k, sonsuz aÅŸk olmad???n?? O yalanc?n?n iÄŸrenç dilini kessinler! Gel peÅŸimden, ey okurum ve sadece benim peÅŸimden gel, ben sana böyle bir aÅŸk göstereceÄŸim!

Ale pan nie jest Dostojewskim – powiedzia?a zbita z tropu przez Korowiowa obywatelka. -Sk?d to mo?na wiedzie?, sk?d to mo?na wiedzie?! - odrzek? Korowiow. -Dostojewski umar? – o?wiadczy?a obywatelka, ale jako? niezbyt pewnie. -Protestuj?! - gor?co zawo?a? Behemot. - Dostojewski jest nie?miertelny!

These sorrowful musings on my imperfection were nothing compared to the awful realization that I had gained precisely nothing from reading the books of the very best writers; no avenues had opened up, no light gleamed ahead and it had done nothing but depress me. Wormlike, the awful thought began to gnaw at my heart that I should never make a writer.

Unfortunately, I cannot do that,' replied the master, 'because I burned it in the stove.' 'Forgive me, but I don't believe you,' Woland replied, 'that cannot be: manuscripts don't burn.

But The Master and Margarita is true to the broader sense of the novel as a freely developing form embodied in the works of Dostoevsky and Gogol, of Swift and Sterne, of Cervantes, Rabelais and Apuleius.

Ka?dy z literatów pomyÅ›laÅ' co innego. Berlioz: "Nie, to jednak cudzoziemiec!", a Bezdomny: "O, cholera!...".

Very well then," replied the guest, and said weightily and distinctly: "Yesterday at Patriarch's Ponds you met with Satan.

The White Guard, written in the twenties and dealing with the nearly contemporary events of the Russian civil war in his native Kiev and the Ukraine, a book which in its clear-sighted portrayal of human courage and weakness ranks among the truest depictions of war in all of literature.

Bulgakov began work on the first version of the novel early in 1929, or possibly at the end of 1928.

Mikhail Bulgakov

And who's going to pay the rent—Pushkin?

Mikhail Bulgakov

manuscripts don't burn.

Dumneavoastr? nu sunteÈ›i Dostoievski, zise cet??eana pe care Koroviev c?uta s-o z?p?ceasc?. - Cine È™tie, cine È™tie, obiecta pezevenchiul. - Dostoievski a murit, zise femeia, dar nu prea convins?. - Protestez ! exclam? cu înfl?c?rare Koroviev. Dostoievski e nemuritor !

Usted no es Dostoyevski —dijo la ciudadana, desconcertada, dirigiéndose a Koróviev. —¿Quién sabe?, ¿quién sabe? —contestó él. —Dostoievski ha muerto —dijo la ciudadana, pero no muy convencida. —¡Protesto! —exclamó Popota con calor—. ¡Dostoievski es inmortal!