I already did two posts before about the book
'Nighttrain to Lisbon',
since i am so fascinated by it.
I finally finished it.
I was a little frightened to finish it,
since i always feel a little sad when something so good,
Maybe some of you are a little bored by these kind of posts.
I understand that.
Nevertheless i wanted to share some last words
from the book.
Just because they touched me deeply,
and i hope they will do the same to you.
To make the post more interesting,
i used the gorgeous photography of Lieke.
I have no words for her talent.
There are things that are
for us people.
Pain, loneliness, death,
but also beauty, eminence and happiness.
Because of this,
we have created religion.
What happens when we lose that?
Those things are still too big for us.
What stays with us,
is the poetry of our individual lives.
Is that strong enough,
to carry us?
When is someone himself?
When he was like he always was?
The way he saw himself?
Or the way it was when,
the burning lava of thoughts and feelings
burried every lie, mask and self deception?
The fear that life
would be unfinished.
The consciousness that you couldn't be
what you wanted to be
Due to intimacy,
we are attached to each other.
The connection is compelling:
she requires exclusivity.
Sharing is betraying.
He had lived in a purgatory of doubt,
harassed by the fear to overlook himself.
"It was in Coimbra, on a hard seat in the lecture room,
when i realised:
I can't step out."
Every time i am too late,
no matter how quickly the light of the observation
rushes behind the things.
Everything is always,
I am never there.
Maybe the train rides in a circle,
without anyone noticing,
even the train driver.
everything i see when i wake up
Both internal and external.
They didn't understand,
that it wasn't about Lisbon,
but about him: Amadeu.
His homesickness wasn't the longing for
what he knew and what he loved.
It was something much deeper,
something that touched him in his essence:
the longing to be able to escape back,
to behind the controlled embankments
of his inner self,
that protected him from the dangerous fires
and the treacherous floodings of his soul.
When we had realised,
that with everything we do and experience,
we are just quicksand...
When we had realised,
that despite all our effort,
it is just a case of pure luck,
whether we succeed in something or not,
when we apparently realised that with everything we do,
are quicksand for ourselves:
what happens to all those wellknown
and worshipped feelings such as
pride, remorse and shame?
The others are your court.
He considered melancholy
as a timeless experience
and he thought that melancholy.
was one of the most valuable things,
"Because it shows the fragileness of people."
I lay next to her,
i hear her breath,
i feel her warmth,
and i am terribly lonely.
What is that? What?
When others abstain us from their
devotion, respect and admission,
why can't we just say to them:
I don't need all of that,
i have myself.
Isn't it an horrible form of un-freedom,
that we can't do that?
Doesn't it makes us slaves to the others?
Which feelings can you insert against it,
as barrier, as bastion?
Of which nature should the
inner freedom be?
i know how people are connected
and intertwined with one another
till their deepest depths,
without them having the slightest presumption
that they are.
Thank you so much Lieke,
for allowing me to use your photography on my blog!
(All words are translated by me from the Dutch book,
so you may notice some English mistakes. Tell me, so i can learn from it.)