Frasi di John Updike

pagina 7

“Se dici abbastanza spesso a qualcuno che è simpatico, finisce col diventarlo davvero.”

“Il sesso è come il denaro: solamente quando è troppo è abbastanza.”

“A me piace l'insonnia. È una prova che sono vivo.”

“È più difficile essere un marito che un amante.”

“Le amanti mordono. Le mogli no.”

“Era una ragazza giovane, ma con quell'espressione indolente di sazietà e di malcontento che hanno sempre le ragazze italiane per essere rimaste strette troppo a lungo al seno di una madre piangente.”

“Ogni cosa sotto il cielo finisce, e se si ritiene che la temporalità ne infici il valore, allora nulla che sia reale ottiene mai il successo.”

“Era vero per la mia generazione, che i film erano terribilmente vividi e istruttivi.”

“Mim ha riattaccato. Ha una vita da affrontare.”

“Il tempo è il nostro elemento, non un invasore errato.”

“Ma per alcune frasi delle sue lettere e una strana linea o due dei suoi versi, il poeta cammina imbavagliato attraverso la sua biografia.”

“Chiunque ti dica come comportarsi ha il whisky nel respiro.”

“There is no pleasing New Englanders, my dear, their soil is all rocks and their hearts are bloodless absolutes.”

“Did Nelson ever tell you the story," Pru asks Annabelle, "how he lost the agency up his nose?”

“Truth should not be forced; it should simply manifest itself, like a woman who has in her privacy reflected and coolly decided to bestow herself upon a certain man.”

“Her sentences march under a harsh sun that bleaches color from them but bestows a peculiar, invigorating, Pascalian clarity.”

“His wife is, it occurs to Harry, a channel that can't be switched. The same slightly too-high forehead, the same dumb stubborn slot of a mouth, day after day, same time, same station.”

“The difficulty with humorists is that they will mix what they believe with what they don't; whichever seems likelier to win an effect.”

“When Rabbit first began to drive the road was full of old fogeys going too slow and now it seems nothing but kids in a hell of a hurry, pushing. Let 'em by, is his motto. Maybe they'll kill themselves on a telephone pole in the next mile. He hopes so.”

“The houses, many of them no longer lived in by the people whose faces he all knew, are like the houses in a town you see from the train, their brick faces blank in posing the riddle, Why does anyone live here? Why was he set down here, why is this town, a dull suburb of a third-rate city, for him the center and index of a universe that contains immense prairies, mountains, deserts, forests, cities, seas? This childish mystery—the mystery of ‘any place,’ prelude to the ultimate, ‘Why am I me?’—ignites panic in his heart.”

“You don’t stop caring, champ. You still care about that little girl whose underpants you saw in kindergarten. Once you care, you always care. That’s how stupid we are.”

“The male sense of space must differ from that of the female, who has such interesting, active, and significant inner space. The space that interests men is outer. The fly ball high against the sky, the long pass spiraling overhead, the jet fighter like a scarcely visible pinpoint nozzle laying down its vapor trail at 40,000 feet, the gazelle haunch flickering just beyond arrow-reach, the uncountable stars sprinkled on their great black wheel, the horizon, the mountaintop, the quasar — these bring portents with them and awaken a sense of relation with the invisible, with the empty. The ideal male body is taut with lines of potential force, a diagram extending outward; the ideal female body curves around centers of repose.”

“Rain is grace; rain is the sky condescending to the earth; without rain, there would be no life.”

“Government is either organized benevolence or organized madness; its peculiar magnitude permits no shading.”

“I moved to New England partly because it has a real literary past. The ghosts of Hawthorne and Melville still sit on those green hills. The worship of Mammon is also somewhat lessened there by the spirit of irony. I don't get hay fever in New England either.”

“Thirty-six years old and he knows less than when he started. With the difference that now he knows how little he'll always know.”

“Life is a hill that gets steeper the more you climb.”

“Four years was enough of Harvard. I still had a lot to learn, but had been given the liberating notion that now I could teach myself.”

“An author that's in now might be out in ten years. And vice-versa. Who knows when the final sifting is done, in the year 2050, say, who will be read of my generation? You'd like to think you will be one. But there has to be a constant weeding that goes on. The Victorians read all kinds of writers who we don't have time for now. Who reads Thackeray? An educated person reads Dickens, or reads some Dickens. But Thackeray?”

“Halfway isn't all the way, but it's better than no way.”

“[about the past, and Mary Ann, before Harry went to do his two years in the army] Maybe she sensed something about him. A loser. Though at eighteen he looked like a winner.”

“The creative writer uses his life as well as being its victim; he can control, in his work, the self-presentation that in actuality is at the mercy of a thousand accidents.”

“Whenever somebody tells me to do something my instinct's always to do the opposite. It's got me into a lot of trouble, but I've had a lot of fun.”

“Your children's losing battle with time seems even sadder than your own.”

“Nelson wonders why, no matter how cheerful and blameless the day's activities have been, when you wake in the middle of the night there is guilt in the air, a gnawing feeling of everything being slightly off, wrong – you in the wrong, and the world too, as if darkness is a kind of light that shows us the depth we are about to fall into.”

“Yes, there is a ton of information on the web, but much of it is egregiously inaccurate, unedited, unattributed and juvenile.”

“When you feel irresistable, you're hard to resist.”

“But for a few phrases from his letters and an odd line or two of his verse, the poet walks gagged through his own biography.”

“Mim has hung up. She has a life to get on with.”

“A narrative is like a room on whose walls a number of false doors have been painted; while within the narrative, we have many apparent choices of exit, but when the author leads us to one particular door, we know it is the right one because it opens.”

“"… Nelson'll be thirty-three in a couple of months." He thinks it would be a waste of breath, and maybe offensive, to explain to Mr Shimada that at that same age Jesus Christ was old enough to be crucified and redeem mankind.”