It's interesting how young poets think of death while old fogies think of girls. Bohumil Hrabal More Quotes by Bohumil Hrabal More Quotes From Bohumil Hrabal Because when I read, I don't really read; I pop a beautiful sentence into my mouth and suck it like a fruit drop, or I sip it like a liqeur until the thought dissolves in me like alcohol, infusing brain and heart and coursing on through the veins to the root of each blood vessel. Bohumil Hrabal heart beautiful blood He was a gentle and sensitive soul, and therefore had a short temper, which is why he went straight after everything with an ax. Bohumil Hrabal sensitive temper soul No book worth its salt is meant to put you to sleep, it's meant to make you jump out of your bed in your underwear and run and beat the author's brains out. Bohumil Hrabal writing running book I always loved twilight: it was the only time of day I had the feeling that something important could happen. All things were more beautiful bathed in twilight, all streets, all squares, and all the people walking through them; I even had the feeling that I was a handsome young man, and I liked looking at myself in the mirror, watching myself in the shop windows as I strode along, and even when I touched my face, I felt no wrinkles at my mouth or forehead. Bohumil Hrabal twilight beautiful men I can be by myself because I'm never lonely, I'm simply alone, living in my heavily populated solitude, a harum-scarum of infinity and eternity, and Infinity and Eternity seem to take a liking to the likes of me. Bohumil Hrabal likes solitude lonely To spend our days betting on three-legged horses with beautiful names Bohumil Hrabal horse names beautiful I was always lucky in my bad luck. Bohumil Hrabal bad-luck lucky luck Lost in my dreams, I somehow cross at the traffic signals, bumping into street lamps or people, yet moving onward, exuding fumes of beer and grime, yet smiling, because my briefcase is full of books and that very night I expect them to tell me things about myself I don't know. Bohumil Hrabal dream book moving Today's Gypsies, who have lived in Prague for only two generations, light a ritual fire wherever they work, a nomads' fire crackling only for the joy of it, a blaze of roughhewn wood like a child's laugh, a symbol of the eternity that preceded human thought, a free fire, a gift from heaven, a living sign of the elements unnoticed by the world-weary pedestrian, a fire in the ditches of Prague warming the wanderer's eye and soul. Bohumil Hrabal eye fire children As I helped him up, I felt him shake all over, so I asked him to forgive me, without knowing what for, but that was my lot, asking forgiveness, I even asked forgiveness of myself for being what I was, what it was my nature to be. Bohumil Hrabal forgive-me forgiving knowing I pop a beautiful sentence into my mouth and suck it like a fruit drop. Bohumil Hrabal fruit mouths beautiful I expect them to tell me things about myself I don't know. Bohumil Hrabal grime briefcases knows ... because real thoughts come from outside and travel with us like the noodle soup we take to work; in other words, inquisitors burn books in vain. If a book has anything to say, it burns with a quiet laugh, because any book worth its salt points up and out of itself. Bohumil Hrabal real laughing book And so everything I see in this world, it all moves backward and forward at the same time, like a black-smith's bellows, like everything in my press, turning into its opposite at the command of the red and green buttons, and that's what makes the world go round. Bohumil Hrabal black opposites moving
