Astrid Lindgren “Sõjapäevikud 1939-1945”


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  • Inimesed paistavad muidu tavalised, ainult veidi süngemad. Kõik räägivad üksteisega sõjast, isegi need, kes omavahel tuttavad ei ole.
  • Räägitakse, et prantslased panid läänerindele üles plakati “Me ei tulista”. Ja et sakslased vastasid neile oma plakatiga “Meie ka mitte”. Aga ega see vist tõsi ei ole.
  • Saksamaa meenutab pahatahtlikku koletist, kes regulaarselt oma koopast välja sööstab, et järgmisele ohvrile kallale karata. Rahval, kes suudab end umbes iga kahekümne aasta tagant meelestada peaaegu kogu ülejäänud inimkonna vastu, peab midagi viga olema.
  • Täna saab aasta päevast, kui algas sõda. Hakkame harjuma. Vähemalt elades kohas, kus lakkamatult ei saja pomme alla.
  • Korteris on ilus suur elutuba, mõlemal lapsel oma tuba ja meil magamistuba. Oleme ostnud päris palju uut mööblit ja kõik tundub päris tore. Ma loodan, et meie korterit pommitama ei hakata.
  • Mu kallis tütar läks sel sügisel kooli. Ta paneb mu kannatuse mõnikord proovile: on tõre, ei kuula sõna ja narritab mind igal viisil. Muudaks ta ometi oma käitumist.
  • Momendil sõditakse Vene metsades, Liibüa kõrbetes ja päikselisel Hawaiil. Ja kõik algas ju sellest, et sakslased tahtsid Danzigit. Sellele mõeldes hakkab pea kergelt ringi käima.
  • Milline õndsalt kaunis suvistepüha õhtu, nii soe, et lase aga olla! Sel aastal on kõik ebatavaliselt varajane. Istume praegu elutoas ja aknad on pärani lahti, tunne on umbes selline, nagu oleksime pargis. Väga suvised hääled kostavad sisse, kõnniteedel kõpsuvad kontsad, pargis kilkavad lapsed ja kui trammid mööda kihutavad, tundub, nagu tahaksid nad meile tuppa sõita.
  • Venelased on nüüdseks jõudnud välja peaaegu Eesti piirini ning hulgaliselt eestlasi põgeneb Soome ja Rootsi. Paljud on tulnud väikeste paatidega Gotlandile. Tulgu ükskõik mis, peaasi et ei jääks venelaste kätte.
  • Raskused on tõesti saabunud, aga veel ei tahaks siiski öelda, et olen õnnetu. 1944. aasta teine pool oli minu jaoks kuratlik ja maapind minu eksistentsi talade all rappus kõvasti: olen ahastuses, masenduses, pettunud, sageli kurvas tujus – aga ma pole tegelikult õnnetu. Sest minu eksistentsi täidavad nii paljud erinevad asjad. /…/ Kui õnnelik olemine ja hea elu elamine tähendaksid üht ja sama asja, oleksin ma muide endiselt “õnnelik”. Aga õnnelik olla pole niisama lihtne. Ühe asja olen ma igatahes selgeks saanud – kui tahad õnnelik olla, siis peab see tunne tulema inimese enda seest, mitte kelleltki teiselt. Ma arvan, et kõigest hoolimata õnnestub mul päris hästi leida asju, mille üle rõõmustada. Aga mingi aimus ütleb mulle, et elu toob raskemaidki katsumusi, ja siis saab näha, kui uljas ma tegelikult olen.
  • Peale selle tuleb maailmas lihtsalt natuke enda ümber ringi vaadata, mõistmaks, et miski pole nii, nagu peaks olema ja ei saa kunagi nii olema ka.
  • Ja muidu on kevadine suurpuhastus tehtud ja olemine kena, mõnikord olen ma rõõmus ja mõnikord kurb. Rõõmus olen enamasti siis, kui kirjutan.
  • Siin ma nüüd olen, Furusundis, ja kirjutan vihmahoogude vahel oma tobedat, kuid samas armsat päevikut.
  • On päevselge fakt, et kõik, kellel Venemaaga vähegi mingit kogemust on, teavad hästi, et venelased on võimelised toime panema sama kohutavaid julmusi kui sakslased – kuigi sellest rääkimist ei peeta hetkel kohaseks. Neil on ju omal kodus ka piisavalt inimesi, keda tappa, selleks pole vaja hakata Rootsi rahvast importima.

 

Käbi Laretei “Kuhu kadus kõik see armastus?”


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  • Mõtlen sageli: otsi mind ainult ja sa näed, et ma olen sinuga. Aga ära otsi rafineeritult, varjatult, salaja, otsi nii, et ma näeksin, et sa otsid. Kas niisugust asja ei tohi endale soovida?
  • Ja mõte, mis kõigepealt on arutlemine, saab aina rohkem tõelisuse värvi ja tekitab omamoodi ootust.
  • Nagu oleksid käima õppinud, äkki lihtsalt märkad, et jalad kannavad, enam ei ole kõhklemist ja ümber ka ei kuku.
  • Vist on nii, et kõige sügavamast kannatusest sünnib niisama suur õnn. Võrdselt mõõdetud, lainehari ja lainepõhi. /…/ Esialgu on kõik tühi, aga see pole enam piinav tühjus, see on väljahingamine, nii sügav väljahingamine, nagu oleks kogu elu siiani olnud ainult õhupuuduses sissehingamine.

“The Journals of Sylvia Plath 1950-1962”


Raamat, mida olen vist Krisost tellides kõige suurema huviga oodanud. Sest et Sylvia.. on Sylvia. Üle 600 lehekülje tema päevikuid. Loetud ja märkmed üles tähendatud kahe aasta eest.

 

  • I have the choice of being active and happy or introspectively passive and sad. Or I can go mad by ricocheting in between.
  • Cats have nine lives, they say. You have one, and somewhere along the thin, tenuous thread of your existence there is a black knot, the blood knot, the stopped heartbeat that spells the end of this particular individual which is spelled “I” and “you” and “Sylvia”. So you wonder how to act and how to be – and you wonder about values and attitudes.
  • Can I write? Will I write if I practice enough? How much should I write before I find out, if I’m any good?
  • All the young growing and testing and being once burned and twice shy and not knowing what to do, or where or when to be how. And then this, the sudden intuitive flash, the sudden knowing when it is right to render up a dream.
  • I lay and cried, and began to feel again, to admit I was human, vulnerable, sensitive. I began to remember how it had been before; how there was that germ of positive creativeness. I had been drawing into a retreat of numbness: it is so much safer not to feel, not to let them touch you. But my honest self revolted at this, hated me for doing this.
  • I live and dislike, but please don’t ask me who I am. A passionate, fragmentary girl, maybe.
  • Perhaps when we find ourselves wanting everything it is because we are dangerously near to wanting nothing. There are two opposing poles of wanting nothing. When one is so full and rich and has so many inner worlds that the outer world is not necessary for joy, because joy emanates from the inner core of one’s being. When one is dead and rotten inside and there is nothing in the world: not all the women, food, sun or mind-magic of others can reach the wormy core of one’s gutted soul planet.
  • Is it possible to love the neutral, objective world and be scared of people?
  • I am both worse and better than you thought.
  • I will write until I begin to speak my deep self
  • Why do I find groups impossible? Do I even want them?
  • What do the gods ask? I must dress, rise and send my body out.
  • I am sure I teach better in that room, just as I am sure I teach better in certain dresses whose colors and textures war not against my body and my thought.
  • I have gotten back a life-vision, whatever that is, which enables people to live out their lives and not go mad.
  • Crossings and re-crossings with people, mad and sane, stupid and brilliant, beautiful and grotesque, infant and antique, cold and hot, pragmatic and dream-ridden, dead and alive.
  • Rain. Wet rain. Grit and slush rubbing in my boots. No parking spaces left in town. To bank. Then tea and a lukewarm bath, and the luxurious unfolding into my own evening and time.
  • I say it’s people I need but what good have they done to me?
  • I find myself wishing, to have a corner of my own: something I can know about, write about well.
  • Teaching was good for me: it structured my mind and forced me to be articulate. If I don’t settle my trouble from within, no outside shower of fortune will make the grass grow.
  • A life of doing nothing is death.
  • I am in a vicious circle – too much alone, with no fresh exteriour experiences except the walking around, staring at people who seem, simply because they are others, to be enviable.
  • Like a soldier, demobbed, I am cut loose of over 20 steady years of schooling and let free into civilian life – as yet, newly, I hardly know what to do with myself. I get weird impulses to rush to Harvard, Yale, begging them to take me on for a Phd, a master’s, anything, only to take my life out of my own clumsy hands.
  • So what does she know about love? Nothing. You should have it. You should get it. It’s nice. But what is it?
  • Writing is a way of ordering and re-ordering the chaos of experience.
  • I may have all the answers to my questions in myself but I need some catalyst to get them into my consciousness.
  • I felt needed and very happy and lucky.

 

Jennifer New “Drawing From Life: The journal as art”


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Raamat jõudis minuni sel teel, et ükspäev toksisin Krisostomusesse otsingusõna drawing. Esimeste seas tuli välja see raamat.. Kuna ma suhtun üsna kirglikult märkmikesse ja päevikutesse, siis tekkis huvi teada saada, et milliseid päevikuid on olemas… Raamatus on 31 inimese päevikud; nende autorite hulgas on kunstnikud, illustraatorid, fotograafid, arhitektid, kirjanikud, teadlased, insenerid.. Igaühe päevik on isikupärane väike maailm.

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Journals are utilitarian objects transformed by repeated and fond use. They hold life in them, which is why we cannot let them go.

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“I did not take up a journal again until college, when a period of intense dreaming compelled me to start one. Nearly two decades of continuous journals have followed, though months sometimes pass between entries. Rarely visual in nature, they do not even amount to a writer’s journal. Rather, they contain the emotional stuff of everyday life, a young woman’s search for self: some whining and self-pity, a lot of fretting and occasional joy.”

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Journals are a place to play, a safe haven away from our embedded editor. We vent and brainstorm and try on different guises in our journals. They are seldom read by others – unless we invite someone in. In them, we are released from the obligation to create polished work or to play nice.

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Not surprisingly, journal keepers tend to have specific material requirements about their supplies. Lined paper versus unlined. The thickness of the paper. Softbound or hardbound. All can make or break the experience.

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“Some diaries seem too good to use. That’s something that’s always been a conflict to me. They seem so perfect until i write on the first page. Then somehow they seem ruined.”

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The journal helps us see. The act of putting something down in a book – sitting and drawing, finding the right words of description, mixing the truest colors – forces us to look so much closely at a subject.

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Japanese women were confiding their emotions to “pillow books”, kept in a slipcase and away from a husband’s eyes, for centuries, before there was anything like a tradition of diary-keeping in the West.

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The journal’s primary purpose is to serve as a place for its author to sort ideas and observations. An internal dialog runs through its pages, of which one contributor says: “It’s the only truly frank conversation I can ever have.”

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In the end journals may show more fully than any finished piece what it has meant to be us.

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Identy is at the base of all these journals. Who am I? Where am I going? Why?

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He sometimes looks through old journals and thinks: “Jesus, what the hell was wrong with me.”

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“My journal was a complete saviour for me, because otherwise I’d have been breaking down and crying. But instead I just opened it up.”

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“I was free between the pages.”

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“My journals are a collection of things I’m curious about.”

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“A journal is the friendliest place an artist can practice being honest with himself, which is scary thing to learn how to do.”

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“It’s very therapeutic to go back and read how my thoughts developed over time.”

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“I have a leather bag I take with me wherever I go. Into it goes my travel docs, my camera, my small notebook, my phone… Of those, the little notebook is by far the most important.”

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8/10.