Eugène Ionesco, Marilynne Robinson, William Cowper, Louis Verbeeck, Theophilus Cibber, Luisa Valenzuela, René Becher

De Frans-Roemeense schrijver Eugène Ionesco werd geboren op 26 november 1912 in Slatina, Roemenië. Zie ook alle tags voor Eugène Ionesco op dit blog.

Uit: Fragments of a Journal

„Two possible attitudes:
To imagine, because imagining means foreseeing. What we imagine is now true, what we imagine will be realized. Science fiction is becoming, or has already become, realistic literature.
A second possible attitude: to consider reality as something beyond reality, to be aware of it not as surrealistic but as unfamiliar miraculous, a-real. Reality of the unreal, unreality of the real.

(When I shall no longer exist, God will say: ‘I do a lot of things that everybody understands. There’s nobody left not to understand them.’)

I am constantly relapsing into literature. The fact of having been able to describe these images, of having put them into words more or less satisfactorily, flatters my vanity. I reflect that it may be well written. It may give pleasure to readers or critics. I say this, I tell myself this and then I relapse into literature. The fact of being conscious of it does not save me. The fact of being conscious that I am conscious of literary values only makes things worse. I have to make a choice, though: vanity, the road to failure, or the other thing. One’s not always lucky enough to get the knock-out blow, one’s not always lucky enough to be desperate about life; I forget it, I seek consolation and amusement, I enjoy myself, I write my ‘private diary.’ I have tremendous vitality; nothing can exhaust it. Only dreams or nightmares can keep one awake. And yet it seems to me that some of the previous pages had nothing to do with words and writing. If I’ve relapsed into ‘literature,’ is it because the Administrator of the Comédie Française has just rung me up from Paris to tell me he’s interested in my latest play? It doesn’t take much to restore my unbalance. Let’s eat an apple.

Living is so painful. Longing so keenly to live is a neurosis; I cling to my neurosis, I have got used to it, I love my neurosis. I don’t want to be cured of it. That’s why I get these terrors, that panic at nightfall.“

Eugène Ionesco (26 november 1912 – 28 maart 1994)

1964 in Parijs

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