Bruno Schulz
Bruno Schulz
Bruno Schulzwas a Polish writer, fine artist, literary critic and art teacher born to Jewish parents. He is regarded as one of the great Polish-language prose stylists of the 20th century. In 1938, he was awarded the Polish Academy of Literature's prestigious Golden Laurel award. Several of Schulz's works were lost in the Holocaust, including short stories from the early 1940s and his final, unfinished novel The Messiah. Schulz was shot and killed by a German Nazi in 1942 while...
NationalityPolish
ProfessionPoet
Date of Birth12 July 1892
CountryPoland
Even in the depths of sleep, in which he had to satisfy his need for protection and love by curling himself up into a trembling ball, he could not rid himself of the feeling of loneliness and homelessness.
Yet what is to be done with events that have no place of their own in time; events that have occurred too late, after the whole of time has been distributed, divided, and allotted; events that have been left in the cold, unregistered, hanging in the air, homeless, and errant?
Lifelessness is only a disguise behind which hide unknown forms of life.
My ideal goal is to "mature" into childhood. That would be genuine maturity.
This enraged the other Nazi so much that the next morning he came to our house and he shot my father.
Under the imaginary table that separates me from my readers, don’t we secretly clasp each other’s hands?
And one's wandering proved as sterile and pointless as the excitement produced by a close study of pornographic albums.
Reality is as thin as paper and betrays with all its cracks its imitative character.
As we manipulate everyday words, we forget that they are fragments of ancient and eternal stories, that we are building our houses with broken pieces of sculptures and ruined statues of gods as the barbarians did.
One thing must be avoided at all costs: narrow-mindedness, pedantry, dull pettiness.
One Sunday, a Sunday probably much like today, two Gestapo officers went out drinking together and they got drunk... They had an argument.
So, it comes to pass that, when we pursue an inquiry beyond a certain depth, we step out of the field of psychological categories and enter the sphere of the ultimate mysteries of life. The floorboards of the soul, to which we try to penetrate, fan open and reveal the starry firmament.
There are things than cannot ever occur with any precision. They are too big and too magnificent to be contained in mere facts. They are merely trying to occur, they are checking whether the ground of reality can carry them. And they quickly withdraw, fearing to loose their integrity in the frailty of realization.
An event may be small and insignificant in its origin , and yet, when drawn close to one’s eye, it may open in its center an infinite and radiant perspective because a higher order of being is trying to express itself in it and irradiates it violently.