I live between heaven and earth. There's commodity immortal and godly in me, but occasionally I still pick my nose if I am alone in my room. My soul has enough room for all the wisdom of India, but formerly I got into a fight with a drunk joe in a coffee shop,.
It's delicate to estimate the novel" Four Seasons, Heaven and Earth" by Márai Sandor in the usual way. Because it principally has no plot, in terms of content, it's a flood tide of contemplation and reflection and nostalgia and association and review. It describes everyday life as well as cultural life; it's both a lengthy journal and a terse piece of news; a private concern but also a general verity that exists; inside it's full of stories. The retired meanings are vague, but the full textbook is strangely terse.
To understand this book, I was forced to imagine Márai Sandor in the form of an aristocratic cat, a cat who was wearied but always conscious of her quality above her own. A day for that special cat goes like this early in the morning he basks in the sun and looks at nature; his eyes sparkle and shine; his soul is full of sympathy with heaven and earth. At the time of feeling the appetite for freedom, the cat began to jump off the windowsill of the manse and wander nearly to look at life. Walking laggardly on the tiled roof, he looked at the youthful couples eating at the same table, taking advantage of the touch and glancing at each other. He scented out the scent of lust, the reek moping from last night's events between them, also wrinkled his nose and walked down calmly. He ran past women walking down the road; he visited sepultures and marriages; he walked through the windows of pens' services; sat there and watched Goethe write the last lines of" Faust."; watching Tolstoy complete" War and Peace", also" Chancing Lost Time" with Proust; opining on Gide, Maugham, Poe, Renard, Rimbaud, and numerous of the world's great pens and of Hungarian in your special language. also, the cat circled many times around the bagnios, entered public cataracts, climbed the mountains, down the plains, and went from unprintable poverty to frivolous highs, from casts of war to peace. buff jar. He traveled a lot, saw a lot, contemplated a lot, and hugged all those effects back to the house after a tiring day of traveling. And he'd lie there by the coliseum of warm milk, tardy shellacking his hurtful studies, staying for his doxy, whose name was Literature, his poet, to come and ask him to tell him what he'd seen. moment. So the uncle was with the doxy.
similar detailed words are inestimable, for Márai Sandor has a knack for giving his studies a visual representation in words that are both real and lyrical, terse and transformative, spreading out what's trivial. This is what's utmost sublime in lyrical melancholy.
Reading Márai's literature, it's easy to see that he was a wise man. He likes to talk half the time, stammer, but also insinuate. He looked at the sky and understood what it contained, but preferred to describe to us its reflection in the lake. And utmost of all, he's a master at oil with words; occasionally it's a geography oil with extremely clear gouaches, occasionally it's a dark and reflective oil painting about the meaning of life, of life. utmost especially, he can paint essay oils, condensing on white paper the most introductory ideas of complex effects that can not be imaged visually. For illustration, in the passage" City", one of my favorite passages, he used the image of a bell ringing in the middle of a ruined megacity after being bombed to relate — profoundly and ingeniously with realizing the value and keeping faith in life
The Bellman is only doing his duty. occasionally that makes no sense. It's not a symbol; symbols mean nothing when a megacity is destroyed. But the bells flew over the ruined megacity. The wounded and the dying heeded the bells, and suddenly they understood that all additional was ridiculous and transitory. The only meaning of the megacity is this bell. It does not go down, indeed when the monuments are broken. Of course, the bellman did not suppose of that. Does he just suppose he'll get a payment on the morning of the month? He chimed the bell like that, tenacious and anxious. But the megacity still lives in remains, for bells are ringing through the air from the ashes. This must be understood. Let's ring the bells.
Reading" Four Seasons, Heaven and Earth", we not only see the common melancholy studies of knowledgeable people but also understand the veritably special enterprises of a pen about changing and contributing to the verity. His values for life and for art are well known. Although Márai Sandor's contemplations are veritably particular, putatively written only to entrust in himself, they're in fact open to everyone, because he doesn't like journals and he doubts the meaning of his journal. journal