Frasi di Anthony Burgess

pagina 9

“L'arte è pericolosa. È una delle sue attrattive: quando cessa di essere pericolosa, tu non la vuoi.”

“Non si chiedono mica quale è la causa della bontà. e allora perché il contrario?”

“Ma il vero peccato sta nell’intenzione esistenziale. Un uomo che non può scegliere cessa di essere un uomo.”

“La guerra è il sistema più spiccio per trasmettere una cultura.”

“Se Arancia meccanica, così come 1984, rientra nel novero dei salutari moniti letterari – o cinematografici – contro l'indifferenza, la sensibilità morbosa e l'eccessiva fiducia nello Stato, allora quest'opera avrà qualche valore.”

“Il terrorismo viene presentato dai terroristi medesimi come uno strumento ad alta finalità, ma gli strumenti hanno la tendenza ad impinguarsi delle finalità fino a sostituirsi ad esse. Lo strumento rende la vita tollerabile al funzionario, laddove la finalità non si mostra bastevole o sufficiente. Solo anime innocenti possono essere capaci di deplorare la crudeltà di mezzi necessari alla instaurazione di finalità gloriose. Uno di questi era Michail Bakunin, santo patrono degli anarchici. Bakunin aveva studiato Hegel, che insegnava l'inevitabilità dell'avvento del millennio. L'Hegelismo applicato è riscontrabile tanto nel marxismo quanto nel bakuninismo, le due dottrine che, entrambe, insegnavano come il cammino dell'inevitabilità possa essere accelerato dall'azione dell'uomo. Azione chiamata rivoluzione nella sfera delle idee, terrorismo nella sfera della pratica”

“In realtà lui non ha scelta, vero? Era il proprio interesse, la paura del dolore fisico che lo hanno spinto a quel grottesco gesto di autoavvilimento. La sua insincerità era anche troppo evidente. Cessa di essere un malfattore, ma cessa anche di essere una creatura capace di scelta morale.”

“Era come un uccello del cielo celeste più raramente filato o come un vino argenteo che scorreva su un'astronave, la gravità ora non ha senso.”

“Con donne così squisite c'è poco bisogno di afrodisiaci….”

“An Egyptian priest…. plays up the mystery of language to enhance his own power.”

“In a sense [Lawrence] is the patron saint of all writers who have never had an Oxford or Cambridge education who are somewhat despised by those who have.”

“He walked down the side street to a wide thoroughfare of shop-windows and offices. This, he assumed, was one of the main arteries of London, a city he did not know very well. There were sodium street-lights, lights in windows. Occasional cars sped by. There was even an airline bus crammed with yawning passengers. Edwin saw himself reflected in a window full of tape-recorders.”

“…You know what they call you expatriates? White leeches.”

“Europeans had sometimes invited him to dinner and given him stuffed aubergines and onion soup and Nuits St Georges and what they said was good coffee.…They had evinced, in their curious French mixed with Malay (both were foreign languages, both occupied the same compartment, they were bound to get mixed), a nostalgia for France which amused him slightly, bored him much, flattered him not at all.”

“Mr Liversedge…saw the whole ridiculous Oriental susah in true proportion. Here men would murder for five dollars, here men would seek divorce because their wives sighed at the handsomeness of the film star P. Ramlee…. nodding at the lucid exposition of Mr Lim from Penang, though contemning inwardly the Pommie accent…”

“…Australian English may be thought of as a kind of fossilised Cockney of the Dickensian era.”

“…And the rising sun shall rise yet higher, destroying with its flaming fire the evil will of the wicked West, but smiling warmly on the rest”

“They saw themselves, you could see, as real grown-up devotchkas already, what with the old hipswing when they saw your Faithful Narrator, brothers, and padded groodies and red all ploshed on their goobers…. They viddied themselves as real sophistoes…. They had the same ideas or lack of, and the same colour hair — a like dyed strawy. Well, they would grow up real today…. No school this afterlunch, but education certain, Alex as teacher.”

“…1660 virtually starts a new era - an era in which the old land-owning class sinks and the new middle-class rises, an era too in which the English character seems to have become subtly changed. A sense of guilt seems to permeate all pleasure, and this has continued to the present day…. the many living monuments to Puritan rule…. the Englishman’s peculiar restraint - the coldness that repels so many Africans and Asians, an unwillingness to ‘let oneself go’.”

“Dr Williams’s book is about a number of nineteenth-century French writers who caught syphilis and probably died of paresis. They are Baudelaire, Jules de Goncourt, Flaubert, Guy de Maupassant and Daudet. A similar book could probably be written about nineteenth-century British writers, including such unlikely victims of syphilis as John Keats and Edward Lear. People were not so frightened of the disease as we are. Few physicians saw the connection between cerebral degeneration and the primary chancre: when the secondary stage of the infection had healed, it was generally assumed that everything was over and lightning would not strike the tree again. This was Baudelaire’s belief. One could even rejoice at picking up the pox: it was not merely an inoculation; it advertised one’s virility to the world….”

“Defiling their shadows, infidels, accursed of Allah, with fingernails that are foot-long daggers, with mouths agape like cauldrons full of teeth on the boil, with eyes all fire, shaitans possessed of Iblis, clanking into their wars all linked, like slaves, with iron chains. Murad Bey, the huge, the single-blowed ox-beheader, saw without too much surprise mild-looking pale men dressed in blue, holding guns, drawn up in squares six deep as though in some massed dance depictive of orchard walls. At the corners of the squares were heavy giins and gunners. There did not seem to be many horsemen. Murad said a prayer within, raised his scimitar to heaven and yelled a fierce and holy word. The word was taken up, many thousandfold, and in a kind of gloved thunder the Mamelukes threw themselves on to the infidel right and nearly broke it. But the squares healed themselves at once, and the cavalry of the faithful crashed in three avenging prongs along the fire-spitting avenues between the walls. A great gun uttered earthquake language at them from within a square, and, rearing and cursing the curses of the archangels of Islam on to the uncircumcized, they wheeled and swung towards their protective village of Embabeh. There they encountered certain of the blue-clad infidel horde on the flat roofs of the houses, coughing musket-fire at them. But then disaster sang along their lines from the rear as shell after shell crunched and the Mamelukes roared in panic and burden to the screams of their terrified mounts, to whose ears these noises were new. Their rear dissolving, their retreat cut off, most sought the only way, that of the river. They plunged in, horseless, seeking to swim across to join the inactive horde of Ibrahim, waiting for. action that could now never come. Murad Bey, with such of his horsemen as were left, yelped off inland to Gizeh.”

“Whether the French were better colonists than the British is an academic question, but at least such Frenchmen as were planting in Malaya (Pierre Boulle, for instance, and Henri Fauconnier) were kept sane by their own culture and some of them (those two, anyway) produced memorable novels based on their Malayan experiences. The British were mostly philistines, and they left behind a heritage of philistinism. Kampung culture is dying, and a metropolitan culture of art galleries and orchestras seems unlikely to arise. What there is, and flourishing too, is a materialist consumerism that is threatened from the north by the communists and from the west by the militant Islam of the ayatollahs. Mr Butcher’s book deals with a race of people who may well be surveyed in terms of anthropological generalities. There was no room for the brilliant or the eccentric. British Malaya was created by courageous and suffering mediocrities. The building of Singapore in 1819 was a rather different affair.”

“…surely that sneered-at suburban life was more stable than this shadow life…in a country where no involvement was possible…better than the sordid dalliance that soothed me after work?”

“His heart beating faster, his throat drying, Nabby whispered to the driver, ‘Not so bloody fast.’
‘Tuan?’
‘All right, all right.’ One of these days he must really get down to the language. There never seemed to be the time, somehow….”

“The scientific approach to life is not necessarily appropriate to states of visceral anguish.”

“He forgot that the Malays revere cats and that the Chinese merely relish them.”

“What you could do with is a nice strong cup of tea, sir. I’ll tell the kuki to make you one.’
‘Does it really do any good, Nabby? (That was better.) ‘I’ve tried every damn thing.’….”

“Legrand scratched his cheek with one of Conté's lead pencils and started to Koranize: I say unto you that you have been brought low by kings who lie with houris on the fat sofas of Stamboul and by those that were once among you and came from lands of the sunset, men pale but warlike, to steal your camels and women and snatch the bread from your teeth, in no wise to raise you high among the peoples of the earth. Meanwhile the C-in-C got on with other things - gunpowder factory, street-lighting, Paris-style café, accommodation for laundresses, a balloon demonstration.”

“From ancient drains and sewers of the language (maritime inns and brothels…), from scrawls in the catacombs…whoremasters’ chapbooks…the vocabulary of tavern brawls”

““…My name…is Mahalingam…. is Sanskrit for ‘large or great or mighty generative organ’ - this, of course, having more a religious (through associations of religion and fertility) significance than an anatomical one. Though anatomically and…socially the name has not proved inept.”

“…a fetid cabaret with a beer-bar, two houses of ill-fame disguised as coffee-shops…”

“…in the bar, he treated me and all around us to a loud recapitulation, based loosely on the visas and entry permits in his passport, of the more scandalous elements of our life together. ‘New York, dear, and that pissyarsed publisher of yours who tried to stop me going to the fistfuck party, dangerous he said, lethal, stupid sod. Toronto, that was where we had that little whatsit at the same time, remember, lovely kind of henna colour, half Indian, half French, not an ounce of bloody Anglosaxon blood remember.’ He got drunk very rapidly on undiluted Pernod. ‘The man on the Washington Post who once had it off with a ghost. At the…”

“It was the afternoon of my eighty-first birthday, and I was in bed with my catamite when Ali announced that the archbishop had come to see me.”

“It was not seemly to raise your flags on the minarets.”

“Well-fed and liquored, I responded with ardour.”

“I decide that the East has definitely spoiled me for women.”

“The window opened gently and a still Autumn night entered cat-like. Edwin smelt freedom and London autumn – decay, smoke, cold, motor oil.”

“It was all a matter of a Goddess – dark, hidden, deadly, horribly desirable.”