Цитаты из книги Стена

- Вы анархист, - резюмировал Лемерсье.

• Нет, - мягко сказал я, - анархисты по-своему любят людей.
• Тогда это чокнутые.

• Я знаю ваш тип, - сказал он мне. - Его зовут Герострат. Он пожелал стать знаменитым и не нашел ничего лучшего, как поджечь Эфесский храм, одно из семи чудес света.

- Это как в ночном кошмаре, - продолжал Том. -Пытаешься о чем-то думать, и тебе кажется, что у тебя выходит, что еще минута - и ты что-то поймешь, а потом все это ускользает, испаряется, исчезает. Я говорю себе: "Потом? Потом ничего не будет". Но я не понимаю, что это значит. Порой мне кажется, что я почти понял... но тут все снова ускользает, и я начинаю думать о боли, о пулях, о залпе. Я материалист, могу тебе в этом поклясться, и, поверь, я в своем уме и все же что-то у меня не сходится. Я вижу свой труп: это не так уж трудно, но вижу его все-таки Я, и глаза, взирающие на этот труп, МОИ глаза. Я пытаюсь убедить себя в том, что больше ничего не увижу и не услышу, а жизнь будет продолжаться - для других. Но мы не созданы для подобных мыслей. Знаешь, мне уже случалось бодрствовать ночи напролет, ожидая чего-то. Но то, что нас ожидает, Пабло, совсем другое. Оно наваливается сзади, и быть к этому готовым попросту невозможно.

Она девственница; она признаёт в тайной глубине своего тела право одного Люсьена владеть ею. Он женится на ней, она будет его женой, самое трепетное из всех прав. Когда она по вечерам будет раздеваться мелкими, священнодействующими движениями, это будет выглядеть как жертвоприношение. Он возьмёт её в свои объятья на зависть всем и скажет ей: "Ты - моя!" То что она покажет ему, она будет обязана показывать ему одному, и любовный акт будет для него сладострастным учётом его владений. Его самое нежное право, его самое интимное право: право быть обожаемым вне постели и в ней.

• They were going to stick a man up against a wall and shoot at him until he croaked: whether it was me or Gris or anyone else made no difference. I knew perfectly well that he was more useful than me to the Spanish cause, but I couldn’t give a shit about Spain or anarchy.
  
  2. -what for? - I don’t know. They are arresting everyone who doesn’t think the same way they do.
  
  know the type of guy you mean," he told me. "His name is Herostratus. He wanted to get famous and the best thing he could think of was to burn down the temple at Ephesus, one of the seven wonders of the world."
  "And what was the name of the architect who'd built the
  temple?"
  *I can't remember," he confessed. "In fact I don't even think anyone knows his name."
  "Really? And yet you remember the name of Herostratus? As you can see, he'd calculated his chances pretty well.»
  
  I hastily stuck the barrel of my weapon into my mouth and bit hard on it. But I couldn't shoot - I couldn't even put my finger on the trigger. There was complete silence again.Then I threw down the revolver and opened the door to them.
  
  
  "Why've you got hair under your arms?" andshe'd told him, "It's a disease."
  
  he just follows the train of his thoughts; personally, I'd like to be a nun and go round posh apartment blocks asking for donations.
  
  My God, to think that's what life is all about, that's what we dress up for and keep clean for and make ourselves look beautiful for and every novel is about that and everyone thinks about it non-stop and when you get down to brass tacks this is all it is, you go off into a bedroom with some guy who half-smothers you and gets your belly all wet to crown it all.
  
  It was not long before Lucien noticed that his friendship with Berliac rested on a misunderstanding: to be sure, no one was more sensitive than he was to the pathos and beauty of the Oedipus complex, but he saw it above all as the sign of a potential for passion that he hoped later on to lead towards other ends. Berliac, conversely, seemed to wallow in his state and didn't want to emerge from it. "We're really screwed up," he said with pride. "Failures.
  We'll never achieve anything"
  
  Lucien told him straight, one day, that he
  couldn't understand it - friends should share all the expenses when they went out together. Berliac stared him right in the eyes and said, "Just as I suspected: you're an anal character," and he
  explained to him the Freudian equation, faces = gold, and the
  Freudian theory of avarice. "There's one thing I'd like to know," he said. "How old were you when your mother stopped wiping your bottom?" This almost wrecked their friendship.
  
  There is more destructive power in them than in the complete works of Lenin."
  
  "Give me a pipe," said Lucien huskily.
  Bergère started to laugh.
  "It's not worth it," he said. "Don't worry about Berliac. Don't you know what he's doing right now?"
  "I can't say I care,
  » said Lucien.
  "Well, all the same, I ought to tell you that's he throwing up," said Bergère serenely. "That's the only effect hashish has ever had on him. The rest is just play-acting, but I get him to smoke some-times, since he wants to show off and that amuses me."
  
  It was the kind of weather you dream of, when you want to wear clean clothes on a well-washed body with a brand-new soul.
  
  He wondered whether he ought not to go and see Freud in Vienna.
  «I'll leave without money, on
  foot if necessary, and F'll say to him: I don't have a penny, but I'm a real textbook case."
  
  "I wanted to ask you, sir: what
  do you think about psychoanalysis?"
  The Baboon started to laugh.
  "His a fashion," he said. "Till pass.
  
  "You're not into politics, I gather - that's your business. But you're French: you have a right to say what you think."
  When Lucien heard the words "You have a right to say what you think", an inexplicable, almost orgasmic pleasure shot through him.