[b]José Saramago
Because each of you has his or her own death, you carry it with you in a secret place from the moment you’re born, it belongs to you and you belong to it.[/b]
Let’s decide: Really, really dumb or really really brilliant.
There are people like Senhor José everywhere, who fill their time, or what they believe to be their spare time, by collecting stamps, coins, medals, vases, postcards, matchboxes, books, clocks, sport shirts, autographs, stones, clay figurines, empty beverage cans, little angels, cacti, opera programmes, lighters, pens, owls, music boxes, bottles, bonsai trees, paintings, mugs, pipes, glass obelisks, ceramic ducks, old toys, carnival masks, and they probably do so out of something that we might call metaphysical angst, perhaps because they cannot bear the idea of chaos being the one ruler of the universe, which is why, using their limited powers and with no divine help, they attempt to impose some order on the world, and for a short while they manage it, but only as long as they are there to defend their collection, because when the day comes when it must be dispersed, and that day always comes, either with their death or when the collector grows weary, everything goes back to its beginnings, everything returns to chaos.
Let’s decide: Really, really dumb or really really brilliant.
…the only thing more terrifying than blindness is being the only one who can see.
Among other things, how so?
… the best way of killing a rose is to force it open when it is still only the promise of a bud.
Like a rose could ever give a shit.
…for human words are like shadows, and shadows are incapable of explaining light and between shadow and light there is the opaque body from which words are born…
And, of course, die.
…all stories are like those about the creation of the universe, no one was there, no one witnessed anything, yet everyone knows what happened.
Not counting me of course.