Frases de Milorad Pavić

Milorad PavićFoto

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Milorad Pavić

Fecha de nacimiento:15. Octubre 1929
Fecha de muerte:30. Noviembre 2009

Milorad Pavić fue un escritor serbio, experto en literatura serbia del siglo XVII al XIX, traductor de Pushkin y Lord Byron al serbio y profesor en las Universidades de Novi Sad y Belgrado, entre otras.[1]​ Se inició con una obra poética, Palimpsesti, de 1967, aunque su obra más destacada internacionalmente es Diccionario jázaro, considerada un exponente de la narrativa hipertextual. Esta obra, así como El último amor en Constantinopla, tiene la particularidad de estar escrita en dos versiones, una masculina y otra femenina.

Fue propuesto para el Premio Nobel de Literatura por expertos de Europa, Estados Unidos y Brasil. Fue miembro de la Academia de las Artes y de las Ciencias de Serbia desde 1991. Se encuentra enterrado en el Paseo de los Ciudadanos Distinguidos del cementerio de Novo groblje en Belgrado.

Frases Milorad Pavić

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Milorad Pavić Foto
Milorad Pavić2
escritor serbio











Milorad Pavić Foto
Milorad Pavić30
Serbian writer
„Unutrašnja strana vetra je ona koja ostaje suva dok vetar duva kroz kišu."
"Bilo je nešto što nikako nije uspevala da uklopi u svoju čistu sliku sveta. To su bili snovi. Otkud u tako jednostavnom životu, u kome se može trčati samo između dva uha, svake večeri nešto tako neobjašnjivo kao što su snovi? Nešto što traje i posle smrti."
"Lingvistika snova govorila je jasno da postoji prilog vremena sanjanog i da put do sadašnjice vodi preko budućnosti, i to kroz san. Jer ni prošlog vremena nema u snovima. Sve liči na nešto još nedoživljeno, na neku čudnu sutrašnjicu koja je počela unapred. Na neki predujam uzet od budućeg života, na budućnost koja se ostvaruje pošto je sanjač izbegao neminovno SADA."
"Ljubav je kao ptica u kavezu; ako je svaki dan ne nahraniš, ugine."
"OTVARAM VRATA, U SOBU ULAZI MESEČINA, KROZ MESEČINU ULAZIM JA."
"Ničega tajanstvenog, nažalost, nema na svetu. Svet nije pun tajni, svet je pun ušiju koje pište. Čitava priča može da stane u pucanj biča."
"Svi smo mi zidari vremena, teramo senke i hvatamo vodu na pupak; svak zida od časova svoju kuću, svak od vremena svoj uljanik podiže i svoj med bere, vreme u mehovima nosimo da nam vatru raspiruje."
"Kada se zagledamo u svoju dušu, vidimo je kakva je ona bila pre mnogo hiljada godina, a ne kakva je sada, jer toliko treba da naš pogled stigne do duše i da je osmotri, to jest, toliko vremena treba da svetlost duše stigne do našeg unutrašnjeg oka i da ga obasja. Ponekad tako vidimo dušu koje odavno nema.“
The Inner Side of the Wind, or The Novel of Hero and Leander





Milorad Pavić Foto
Milorad Pavić30
Serbian writer
„The guard locks the gates of the turbeh, letting the heavy sound of the lock fall into the dark interior, as though leaving the name of the key inside. Dispirited, like me, he sits down on the stone beside me and closes his eyes. Just when I think he has dozed off in his part of the shade, the guard lifts his hand and points to a moth fluttering above the entrance to the tomb, having come out of our clothes or the Persian carpets in the turbeh.
"You see," he says to me casually, "the moth is way up there by the white wall of the doorway, and it is visible only because it moves. From here it almost looks like a bird in the sky. That's probably how the moth sees the wall, and only we know it is wrong. But it doesn't know that we know. It doesn't even know we exist. You try to communicate with it if you can. Can you tell it anything in a way it understands; can you be sure it understood you completely?"
"I don't know," I replied. "Can You?"
"Yes," the old man said quietly, and with a clap of his hands he killed the moth, then profered its crushed body on the palm of his hand.
"Do you think it didn't understand what I told it?"
"You can do the same thing with a candle, extinguish it with your two fingers to prove you exist," I commented.
"Certainly, if a candle is capable of dying... Now, imagine," he went on, "that there is somebody who knows about us what we know about the moth. Somebody who knows how, with what, and why this space that we call the sky and assume to be boundless, is bounded-- somebody who cannot approach us to let us know that he exists except in one way-- by killing us. Somebody, on whose garments we are nourished, somebody who carries our death in his hand like a tongue, as a means of communicating with us. By killing us, this anonymous being informs us about himself. And we, through our deaths, which may be no more than a warning to some wayfarer sitting alongside the assassin, we, I say, can at the last moment perceive, as through an opened door, new fields and other boundaries. This sixth and highest degree of deathly fear (where there is no memory) is what holds and links us anonymous participants in the game. The hierarchy of death is, in fact, the only thing that makes possible a system of contacts between the various levels of reality in an otherwise vast space where deaths endlessly repeat themselves like echoes within echoes...“



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