nesrečniki

zakaj bi bilo drugače sploh vredno živeti, če bi bilo vse tako, kot je videti?
- umberto eco, foucaultevo nihalo


obožujem knjige. upam, da je to zdaj že zacementirano v same temelje zemlje. ne spomnim se, da jih kdaj ne bi. vse tetine knjige (ki sem si jih priborila: npr. zlata ptica) so počečkane z mojim imenom. nepravilnim, čudno obrnjeno črko j, ampak še vedno. moje. morje, učim se brati in ni bilo večjega vznemirjenja kot večer, ko sem držala eno od dveh knjig v rokah. ena je temno modra, nekaj o racah. druga, čudežno drevo. od tam je šlo samo še navzgor.

* prva 'odrasla' knjiga: pilotova žena.
* novohlačniki in pogled knjižničarke v osnovni šoli, ki sporoča, da ne, na žalost še ni nobene nove.
* hročš leti v somraku. prva, ki me je dejansko potegnila v zgodbo in me pustila rahlo zmedeno, kateri izmed obeh svetov je bolj resničen.
* portret doriana graya. očitni dokaz, da obstajajo knjige, ki so dobre, in knjige, ki ti s prvim stavkom povejo, da so veliko več kot samo dobre.
* alkimist. mali princ.

nesrečniki, victor hugo. zgodba, ki se dotakne in te potegne v globino, da jo še leta kasneje čutiš v rokah, vidiš, na kateri strani se prvič pojavi novo ime. spomniš se vsake malenkosti, od police, kjer je čakala dolge tri mesece, ker ne moreš in ne moreš preboleti opisa pokrajin, ki nimajo nobene veze z zgodbo. stran za stranjo, korak za korakom, kako izgleda pariška kanalizacija čez celotno 19. stoletje. tisti en stavek, ki naredi to dolgotrajno pot več kot vredno. hočeš priti do konca, ampak nočeš, da se kadar koli konča. ampak se. torej jo ponavljaš. tega špeha res ne greš brat spet od začetka, ponavljaš jo v glavi. in si popolnoma presrečen, ko ugotoviš, da obstaja v glasbeni obliki.

torej. nesrečniki pod zvezdami na ljubljanskem gradu. in mini bedna razlaga, zakaj se solzim še preden se film začne.


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why is it worth living, if everything is as it seems? 
- umberto evo, foucault's pendulum

i adore books. i believe that should have been cemented into the very foundations of the earth. i can't remember ever not adoring them. all of my aunt's books (that's i have eventually made my own) have my scrabbled name written all over. not correctly spelled, a letter twisted making it look the other way, but still my name. saying 'mine'. we're at the sea side and i am just learning how to read and there is no greater excitement than holding one of the two books in my hands during sun setting. one of the books is dark blue, something about ducks. the other, about a magical tree. it only when up from there and then. 


* my first 'grown up' book: the pilot's wife
* die knickerbocker-bande and the look on the librarian's face telling me, no, unfortunately nothing new
* the beetles fly at dusk. the first book that sucked me into the story and left me confused, thinking which of the worlds is more real
* the picture of dorian gray. the obvious proof there are books which are good and books that with the very first sentence proclaim they are much better than just good
* the alchemist. the little prince

les miserables, victor hugo. a story that touches and pulls you in deep, so you can feel it in your hands years later, so you can still see on which page a new name appears for the first time. you remember every little details, from the shelf where it waited for those long three months because you just couldn't get over the dragging description of landscapes, that seemingly have no connections to the story. page after page, step by step about how paris' sewage system worked back in the 19th century. following by one sentence that takes your breath away and makes the journey worth the price. you cannot wait to get to the end and you still don't want it to ever finish. but it does. so you keep the story in replay. you really don't go reading all that heavy weight, you just repeat it in your head. and you get over your head with joy when you realise the story exist in musical form.

so. les miserables under the stars on ljubljana castle. and a small pathetic explanation of my tearing up before the movie even starts.